.17.  PRIQE,  TEN  CENTS. 

Weekly.     By  Subecriptioc,  $5.20  Per  Annum.    Entered  at  the  New  York  Poet  Office  as  Second-Class  Matter.     April  29,  1893. 

Copyright,  1893,  by  F.  M.  Lupton. 


^- 


Rock  Ruin ;  or,  The  Dairter  of  tlie  Island. 


By  Mrs.   AKK  S.  STEPHENS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Where  the  coast  of  Ireland  is  m dented  by  one 
of  those  lovely  bays  which  creep  inland,  and  are 
60  sheltered  by  the  hills  that  you  can  scarcely  see 
where  they  find  outlet  to  the  ocean,  stood  a  noble 
old  abbey,  partly  in  ru'us,  but  still  vast  and  im- 
posing. Its  site  overlooked  the  whole  bay,  and  in 
Lir  weather  commanded  silvery  glimpses  of  the 
ocean.  The  monastic  portions  of  this  edifice  had 
been  allowed  to  fall  into  decay,  but  that,  to  a  po- 
etic fancy,  was  the  great  charm  of  the  place. 
There  was  something  sublime  in  the  growth  of 
tall  elms  and  oaks  from  the  very  altar-stone  of 
what  had  once  been  the  chapel— something  lovely 
in  the  sheeted  ivy  and  clinging  moss,  which  had 
been  for  years  hiding  all  that  had  been  art,  and 

fiving  fresh  touches  of  nature  to  the  broken  walls, 
n  connection  and  in  harmony  with  these  ruins, 
many  a  modern  wing  and  abutment  had  been 
built— one  in  this  century,  another  in  that — but  so 
far  apart  that  time  had  harmonized  the  soft  gray 
tints,  and  one  scarcely  knew  which  was  most  im- 
posing, the  ruined  chapel,  with  its  great  gothic 
window,  filled  with  a  lace-work  of  rich  stone  trac- 
ery, through  which  soft  ivy  crept  in  and  out,  or 
the  picturesque  variety  of  the  inhabited  building. 
Both  commanded  the  outlet  of  the  bay,  and  both 
gave  you  glimpses  of  the  pale  green  waters  be- 
yond. 

In  a  chamber  of  the  most  modern  portion  of  the 
building  an  old  man  lay  upon  one  of  those  reclin- 
ing chairs  which  restless  invalids  prefer  to  the 
desolate  certainty  of  a  sick  bed.  He  was  propped 
up  with  well-worn  and  faded  crimson  cushions, 
from  which  a  pillow  of  frost-white  linen  saved  his 

Sale  cheek,  receiving  the  scattered  locks  of  his 
air,  which  was  only  of  a  more  silvery  tint  than 
the  fabric  it  floated  over. 

The  invalid  was  very,  very  eld— some  years 
above  eighty— and  so  thin  that  you- wondered  how 
the  shrunken  chest  could  bear  the  folds  of  that 
heavy  dressing-gown,  under  which  it  labored  for 
breath. 

Another  old  man  stood  behind  his  chair,  looking 
down  upon  the  worn  face  with  such  wistful  trouble 
in  his  eyes  that  you  might  have  pitied  him  far 
more  than  the  invalid  himself. 

"Do  you  breathe  easier,  my  lord?  The  air 
comes  in  fresh  from  the  water.  It  has  a  smell  of 
violets." 

"  Yes— yes.  I  remember  she  loved  violets  bet- 
ter than  anything.  I  found  them  pressed  be- 
tween the  leaves  of  her  prayer  book  long  after 
she  was  dead.  It  broke  her  heart  when  he  went 
away,  you  know,  and  she  never  cared  for  flowers 
after  that — nothing  but  dead  flowers.  You  will 
find  them  in  her  book  after  I  am  gone.  Did  I  tell 
you  that?" 

"  Yes,  my  lord ;  I  know." 

"But  did  I  tell  you  what  to  do  with  the  book 
when  I  have  done  with  it?"  whispered  the  old 
man,  gasping  faintly  for  breath. 


"I  think  not,  my  lord." 

"  How  old  are  you,  Robert  ?" 

"Sixty-nine  this  month,  my  lord." 

"  Ah,  that  is  young— veryl  young.  You  might 
travel  over  the  world  yet,  and  enjoy  new  sights." 

The  faithful  servant  wiped  his  eyes  softly,  and 
held  his  breath,  fearful  that  the  sick  man  might 
detect  his  grief. 

"I  shall  never  enjoy  anything  like  being  of  use 
to  my  master,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"I  know,  I  know;  but  you  can  be  of  use,  groat 
use  to  me,  long  and  long  after  I  am  gone." 

"If  I  could  it  would  be  a  great  comfort." 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  Robert— both  your  hands, 
my  good,  faithful  friend." 

The  servant  surrendered  his  two  hands  to  the 
feeble  clasp  of  those  thin,  white  fingers. 

"  Robert !" 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"  Are  we  by  ourselves — quite  alone,  Robert?" 

"  Quite  alone,  my  lord." 

"Lock  the  door.'" 

Robert  went  to  the  door  and  locked  it.  Then 
he  came  back  to  the  patient,  looking  greatly 
troubled. 

"Robert,  how  long  is  it  since  that  letter  came 
with  the  news  of  Ms  death  ?" 

"  Six  years  ago,  my  lord." 

"Six  years  I  It  seems  only  yesterday.  I  began 
to  grow  old  after  that — old  and  feeble.  But  they 
cannot  say  that  I  am  in  my  second  childhood  even 
yet,  Robert?" 

"They  cannot  say  that." 

"  Or  that  my  judgment  is  not  sound?" 

" It  is  clearas  ever." 

"  You  can  swear  to  that  ?" 

"I  can." 

"And  will,  if  any  one  dares  to  question  it?  No 
one  has  been  with  me  so  much  as  you  have,  old 
friend.  Your  opinion  will  have  weight.  Every 
one  knows  that  you  have  never  been  an  ordinary 
servant,  but  have  education,  taste,  and  a  fin© 
sense  of  honor." 

'•Oh,  my  lord,  it  breaks  my  heart  to  hear  you 
talk  in  this  way." 

"  Hush,  old  friend ;  I  have  a  reason.  Sit  close 
to  me  while  I  talk.  This  air  does  me  good.  I 
can  draw  a  deep  breath ;  my  brain  is  clear  as 
crystal.  Now  liiten.  Just  after  that  letter  came, 
saying  that  my  only  sou  had  died  in  exile,  child- 
less and  alone,  my  nephew  suggested— I  cannot 
tell  you  how  it  was  done,  but  he  led  me— that  is 
the  word — led  me  into  making  a  will,  bequeathing 
everything  to  him." 

"A  will,  my  lord  ?  I  do  not  understand.  In  de 
fault  of  direct  issue,  is  not  Hugh  the  heir-at-law, 
both  to  the  title  and  estate  ?" 

"  That  is  what  troubles  me  Robert.  That  is 
what  has  kept  me  so  restless.  Why  should  he  want 
this  will  ?  Time,  the  entailed  property  is  unim- 
portant. The  great  bulk  I  can  give  away  from 
the  direct  heirs,  but  without  a  will  everything 


Mr;^56i8 


'iiOCK  num:r  ya,' the  daughter  of  the  island 


goes  to  him.  Tell  me,  Eobert,  why  was  he  so 
anxious  ?" 

"  Perhaps  he  feared  that  your  old  servants  might 
be  too  liberally  remembered  if  he  did  not  superin- 
tend the  disposal  of  your  estate." 

"  No,  he  knew  well  what  I  had  resolved  on  then, 
and  said  nothing  against  it.  Robert,  a  strange 
thought  came  into  my  head  yesterday,  as  I  was 
lying  half  asleep  on  the  couch  in  yonder.  Per- 
liaps  I  was  altogether  asleep,  for  my  wife  was  with 
me.  There  was  a  scent  of  violets  such  as  comes 
through  the  sash  now,  and  then  the  consciousness 
of  her  presence.  It  was  a  dream,  no  doubt,  but 
very  sweet  and  real.  When  remembrances  of  love 
come  back  to  an  old  man  of  eightj  they  take  him 
to  heaven.  Well,  when  I  awoke— if  I  had  really 
been  asleep— a  vague  anxiety  filled  my  mind.  She 
had  wanted  me  to  write  or  say  something,  which 
haunted  my  mind  without  enlightening  it.  At 
last  I  thought  of  the  will  which  ray  nephew  had 
almost  forced  from  me  in  the  depths  of  my  grief. 
The  events  all  come  clearly  before  my  mind— his 
unaccountable  anxiety,  his  want  of  delicacy  in 
urging  a  useless  act  upon  me  at  a  time  like  that. 
I  asked  myself  these  questions :  '  Why  should  I 
leave  that  will  ?  Why  did  he  ask  it  ?  Why  was  the 
doubt  haunting  me  so  persistently  ?'  " 

"No  wonder  you  asked  these  questions,"  said 
Bobert,  roused  to  animation. 

"  You  think  as  I  do,  then — that  the  will  was  use- 
less ?" 

"  Worse,  nay  lord.  The  very  fact  that  it  was  use- 
less makes  it  suspicious.  What  if  my  yoang  master 
were  yet  alive?" 

"Alive?  You  have  thought  of  that,  too  I"  cried 
the  old  man,  starting  up  among  his  cushions  and 
clutching  at  his  servant's  arm  for  support. 

"Alive,  and  disinherited  by  that  very  will." 

"Robert-Robert!" 

"  Be  tranquil,  my  lord." 

"  That  very  thought  has  troubled  mo  all  night. 
The  possibility  is  horrible." 

"Calm  yourself.  You  have  no  strength  to 
spare." 

"I  know  it— I  know  it,"  gasped  the  old  man. 
"But  enough  is  left  to  tear  that  will  into  shreds. 
Bring  it  here." 

"Where  shall  I  search— in  the  oak  cabinet?" 

"Yes— yes;  in  his  prayer  book.  I  laid  it  be- 
tween the  loaves.  Bring  the  book  here— kindle  a 
lamp  that  will  burn  the  parchment  to  ashes — then 
scatter  them  to  the  wind !  I  cannot  breathe  till 
then." 

His  state  of  excitement  was  painful.  It  terrified 
the  old  servant,  and  he  went  at  once  to  bring  the 
book  from  a  heavily-carved  cabinet  of  bay  oak  that 
stood  in  a  corner  of  the  room. 

Robert  unlocked  the  cabinet  and  drew  forth  a 
prayer  book  antiquely  bound,  and  with  heavy  gold 
clasps.  He  took  the  volume  to  his  master  and 
gave  it  into  his  hands. 

The  frail  wrists  bent  under  the  weight  of  the 
book,  and  it  fell  upon  the  sick  man's  lap  so  heavily 
that  the  jar  made  him  tremble  from  head  to  foot. 
He  looked  up  wistfully,  and  tried  to  smile  away 
this  proof  of  his  helfjlessness. 

"  Hold  it  up  while  I  undo  the  clasp,"  he  said, 
panting  under  the  sudden  weight. 

Robert  lifted  up  the  book,  and  the  old  man  made 
a  desperate  attempt  to  unlock  the  clasp ;  but  the 
spring  was  stiff,  and  resisted  his  feeble  effort ;  so 
after  a  vain  struggle  his  hands  foil  away,  his  eyes 
cioseid,  and  one  tear  after  another  crept  through 


the  still  lashes  and  lost  themselves  amid  the  fur- 
rows on  his  cheek. 

"I  am  very  feeble,  Robert,"  murmured  the  old 
man.  "  Open  the  book.  No  hands  but  mine  have 
ever  unlocked  the  clasp  since  she  gave  it  to  me  on 
her  death-bed,  but  I  have  no  power  left ;  open  it, 
Robert." 

Robert  dropped  on  his  knees,  and  resting  the 
volume  reverently  on  the  massive  arm  of  his  mas- 
ter's chair,  opened  the  clasp  and  held  up  the  im- 
prisoned leaves. 

The  old  man  leaned  forward  and  turned  the 
leaves  with  his  thin  fingers.  A  scent  of  violets  fol- 
lowed this  feeble  movement,  and  two  or  three  dead 
flowers  fluttered  from  the  book  and  fell  upon  his 
dressing  gown.  He  picked  them  up  one  by  one 
and  laid  them  softly  back  among  the  leaves,  drew 
a  long  breath,  and  commenced  again.  From  cov- 
er to  cover  he  turned  those  illuminated  and  gild- 
ed pages— then  he  paused,  holding  fast  to  one  leaf 
of  the  cover,  and  looking  wildly  into  his  servant's 
face. 

"  It  is  not  here." 

"  I  see  it  is  not,  my  lord." 

"  Neither  the  will  nor  that  letter." 

"Nothing  is  here  save  the  book  and  these  poor 
dead  flowers." 

"I  see— I  see.  Where  have  they  gone?  Who 
has  dared  to  touch  this  book— his  book  ?" 

"  Is  it  certain  the  parchment  was  left  here?"  in- 
quired Robert. 

"  I  placed  it  there  with'  these  hands.  That  and 
the  letter,"  cried  the  old  man,  starting  up  in  fe- 
verish excitement,  which  sent  a  glow  of  crimson 
through  his  wrinkles.  "Both  have  been  removed. 
When— by  whom— for  what  reason?'- 

"  He  may  have  feared  that  you  would  destroy 
the  will,  and  so  removed  it." 

"  He— my  nephew !  What !  open  that  cabinet- 
touch  her  book  ?  Yes,  it  must  be  so.  This  is  like 
fraud,  Robert." 

"  I  fear  it  is  fraud,  my  lord." 

The  sick  man  fell  back  upon  his  pillows,  faint 
and  trembling.  Thus  for  several  minutes  he  lay, 
speechless,  but  troubled  with  thought.  At  last  a 
strange  illumination  crossed  his  face,  and  he  lift- 
ed himself  on  one  elbow. 

"  Robert,  this  must  be  amended.  If  that  parch- 
ment were  burned,  I  should  still  dread  to  see  its 
ashes  afloat,  lest  iniquity  might  spring  from  them. 
There  is  some  evil  thing  here,  close  by  my  death- 
bed. Some  one  is  robbing  me  before  I  am  gone. 
Who  is  it?" 

"  Do  not  be  excited,  my  master.  It  is  kill- 
ing you.  Only  be  calm,  and  all  can  be  made 
right." 

"How?" 

"  Another  will  made,  as  if  your  son  were  now 
alive." 

"  Yes— yes,"  gasped  the  old  man. 

"  It  will  render  the  stolen  parchment  null  and 
void." 

"Yes— yes;  there  lies  the  remedy.  Feel  my 
pulse,  Robert.    Count  it." 

Robert  touched  the  frail  wrist  reverently  with 
his  finger. 

"Oh,  my  lord,  be  calm  I  This  pulse  is  leaping 
at  a  fearful  rate." 

"  I  will  be  calm.  There— there  1  give  me  drink. 
Lay  your  hand  upon  my  forehead— force  me  iuto 
quiet.    I  will  obey." 

The  old  man  closed  his  eyes  beneath  the  sooth- 
ing touch  of  his  servant's'  hand.    The  troubled 


ROCK  RUIN  ;    OU,   THE  liA  UGUTEli  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


heave  of  his  chest  grew  quieter,  but  hia  temples 
worked  with  thought,  and  his  brows  were  drawn 
downward,  as  if  all  his  remnant  of  strength  work- 
ed upon  the  brain.  Whether  some  life  force  went 
forth  from  the  younger  and  stronger  man  I  do 
not  know.  But  a  clear,  light  intelligence  seized 
upon  the  dying  man,  without  impairing  the  little 
strength  that  was  in  him.  He  rested,  and  yet 
thought  actively. 

"Yes,  that  is  the  way,  Robert.  But  how?  My 
solicitor  is  in  Dublin,  forty  miles  off.  I  am  nearer 
to  the  grave  than  that." 

"It  must  be  done— it  must  be  done.  He  shall 
bo  brought  and  the  will  cancelled." 

"If  I  am  here,"  »«,id  the  old  lord,  faintly. 

"  I  will  set  forth  in  an  hour." 

"You?  No,  Robert.  That  would  be  to  take 
awav  my  life  at  once.    Send  a  groom." 

Roberts'  face  clouded.  He  knew  well  that  no 
servant  in  that  dwelling  would  be  considered  as 
belonging  to  his  master,  who  had  been  long  ill, 
and  ignorant  that  the  old  retainers  of  the  house 
•had  been,  one  after  another,  dismissed. 

"  Why  do  you  start?"  inquired  the  invalid,  sud- 
denly. 

Robert  sat  directly  before  the  window,  which 
commanded  a  view  of  the  bay  and  the  inlet  which 
connected  it  with  the  ocean.  Ho  was  looking 
vaguely  out,  when  a  graceful  little  yacht  came 
flitting' about  the  mouth  of  the  inlet,  like  a  great 
white  bird  in  search  of  a  shelter.  It  hovered  on 
the  outer  waters  just  long  enough  to  catch  the 
wind,  then  gave  a  curving  swoop  and  ran  up  the 
channel,  displaying  her  colors  clearly  against  the 
blue  sky  and  bluer  waters. 

"  Start !    Did  I  start,  my  lord  ?" 

"  Your  hand  shakes  now.     What  is  it?" 

"The  yacht,  my  lord.  Mr.  Gerald  has  come 
home  from  his  cruise." 

"  Gerald— my  nephew  ?    I  will  not  see  him." 

"  Be  cautious,  my  lord.    Command  yourself." 

"  You  will  not  leave  me,  Robert  ?" 

"No,  not  if  I  can  help  it." 

"And  you  will  send  for  Hutton  ?" 

"Yes—yes." 

"  Put  the  book  under  my  pillow.  There,  I  feel 
quieter.  Go,  now,  and  send  the  man.  Let  no 
one  suspect  his  errand.  He  will  intercede  with 
the  saints,  and  I  shall  have  time.    Go,  Robert." 

The  servant  went  out,  and  the  old  man  fell  into 
slumber,  calmed  by  the  scent  of  dead  violets  that 
floated  over  his  pillow.  So  still  he  lay,  that  a  per- 
son entering  the  room  suddenly  might  have 
thought  him  dead. 

A  Jovial  party  coming  up  from  the  yacht  met 
the  Earl's  body-servant  going  toward  a  little  ham- 
let which  formed  a  picturesque  feature  around  a 
corner  of  the  bay. 

"Hallo,  Robert!  All  right  at  the  abbey?  No 
change,  I  suppose  ?" 

Robert  took  off  his  hat  and  waited,  with  his 
gray  hairs  in  the  wind,  till  his  master's  nephew 
came  up.  Then  he  answered,  gravely,  that  the 
Lord  was  about  the  same— perhaps  a  little  strong- 
er-he could  not  tell,  and  passed  on. 

Gerald  MacCrea  waited  until  the  old  man  was 
out  of  hearing,  and  then  turned  to  his  friends, 
laughing. 

"  One  would  think,  at  eighty,  a  man  would  have 
more  consideration.  Did  you  ever  hear  anything 
so  unreasonable  ?  Let  my  yacht  atay  out  as  long 
as  she  will— weeks  or  months— it  makes  no  differ- 
ence. This  is  always  the  reply,  "About  the  same  ;' 


or,  more  impudent  still,  'A  little  more  comfort- 
able.'   It's  too  much." 

"Yes,"  answered  a  young  man  who^had  been  a 
guest  on  board  the  yacht;  "Parliament  should 
pass  a  law  forbidding  any  man,  rich  or  poor,  from 
living  beyond  seventy.  The  Bible  ought  to  know 
when  it's  the  proper  season  to  shuffle  off  the  coil. 
It's  impertinent  to  keep  on  beyond  the  *ime  it 
sets.  If  a  fellow  is  rich,  it's  taking  advantage  of 
his  heirs ;  if  he  is  not,  it's  an  imposition  on  the 
poor  sons." 

"Any  way,  there's  no  excuse  for  a  man's  wad- 
ing through  eighty  years,"  la^  hed  another  of 
the  party,  with  a  touch  of  sarcasm  in  his  voice, 
"especially  when  the  heirs  have  anticipated  his 
income." 

Another  voice  joined  in  : 

"  Now,  I  rather  like  the  old  gentleman's  spirit. 
If  I  was  an  earl  with  twenty  thousand  a  year,  and 
no  son  to  inherit,  hang  me  if  there  wouldn't  bo  a 
tussle  before  I  gave  it  up.  Eighty  I  Why,  I'd  live 
to  a  hundred  and  fifty,  sure." 

"Don't  hint  at  such  a  thing,  or  my  friend  up 
yonder  might  catch  at  the  idea,  and  keep  my  cred- 
itors waiting  a  half  century,"  said  MacCrea. 

"  You  are  getting  too  near  the  abbey  for  speeches 
like  that,"  said  one  of  the  party,  who  had  not  yet 
spoken,  "if,  indeed,  there  is  any  place  where  they 
would  be  excusable  or  safe." 

"  Listen — listen !  How  the  lawyer  breaks  out  in 
Nelson  I"  cried  three  or  four  voices. 

"  Hush !"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  in  one  of 
those  deeply-smothered  whispers  that  are  so 
startling  at  times.  He  was  looking  upward,  and 
his  finger  was  half  lifted. 

The  whole  group  followed  his  gesture  with  an 
eye-glance,  when  at  the  window  stood  Lord  Ern- 
ruth,  the  palest  and  most  shadowy  being  that  mor- 
tal eyes  ever  looked  upon.  The  sound  of  strango 
voices  had  aroused  him  from  one  of  those  swee; 
dreams  that  sometimes  make  the  passing  away 
from  earth  heavenly  as  heaven  itself.  With  the 
wild  strength  that  fright  often  gives,  he  had  start- 
ed from  his  chair,  and  staggering  toward  the  win- 
dow, looked  forth  on  a  scene  he  had  never  expect- 
ed to  see  again.  He  heard,  too,  the  mocking 
gaiety  of  his  nephew's  voice,  and  gathered  some- 
thing of  the  conversation,  for  just  then  his  intel- 
lect was  keenly  acute,  and  a  strong  will  was  abso- 
lutely keeping  him  alive.  He  was  a  good  man, 
this  Lord  Ernruth ;  and  now,  just  at  his  death, 
the  clear  judgment  of  his  youth  came  back  with 
almost  miraculous  clearness. 

His  eye  fell  upon  the  uplifted  face  of  hia  nephew. 
That  face  had  been  flushed  a  moment  before,  but 
now  it  had  been  fading  off  to  a  purplish  white. 
The  bold  eyes  fell,  abashed,  down,  and  retreated 
beneath  the  heavy  lids.  If  an  angel  had  looked 
down  upon  him,  he  could  not  have  been  more 
thunderstruck. 

"  Confusion  !  He  cannot  have  heard  us,  though, 
nor  seen  us  either.  He  has  managed  to  creep  to 
the  window  for  a  breath  of  air— that  is  all.  This 
way,  gentlemen,  round  to  the  south  wing.  Thank 
heaven,  the  house  is  large  enough  to  entertain  a 
score  of  guests  without  disturbing  the' old  gentle- 
man, though  I  should  not  wonder  if  he  snatches  a 
new  lease  of  life  and  comes  down  among  us.  After 
seeing  him  up  and  at  the  window,  nothing  can  as- 
tonish me." 

MacCrea  spoke  in  a  low,  hurried  voice,  and  his 
face  was  a  long  time  in  getting  back  its  color. 

The  guests  followed  his  direction,  and  entering 


BOCK  BUIN;   OB,  THE  BAUGHTEB  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


a  portion  of  the  building  remote  from  Lord  Ern- 
ruth's  apartment,  were  soon  comfortably  at  home. 

MacCrea  was  right.  The  mansion  was  so  spa- 
cious that  a  much  larger  party  might  have  been 
entertained  in  it  without  disturbing  the  master. 

Meantime,  Roberts  had  pursued  his  course 
around  the  head  of  the  bay.  It  was  a  lovely  walk. 
The  rich,  heavy  foliage  of  the  shore  was  stirred  by 
a  light  breeze,  and  so  bathed  in  sunshine  that  it 
seemed  as  if  light  from  the  water  had  sparkled  up 
through  the  trees,  leaving  flashes  of  silver  on  ev- 
ery leaf. 

The  old  man  paused  on  a  corner  of  the  road, 
and  looked  around  with  that  yearning  interest 
which  a  warm  heart  feels  while  gazing  upon  ob- 
jects which  he  has  loved  a  whole  lifetime.  So  far 
as  his' eye  could  reach  along  the  green  shore  and 
out  upon  the  water,  every  object  belonged  to  his 
master ;  and  far  beyond  that,  the  broad  lands  of 
the  estate  stretched  their  luxuriant  wreaths, 
blessing  the  owner  and  the  working  men  whose 
labor  had  made  nature  so  prolific  and  so  beau- 
tiful. 

"And  all  this  must  go  to  that  bad  young  man !" 
thought  Roberts,  gazing  upon  the  scene  till  his 
eves  tilled  with  tears.  "  Oh,  if  the  young  master 
hiid  but  lived !    If " 

The  old  man  paused.  Some  strange  feeling 
checked  the  words  on  his  lips.  He  was  a  shrewd 
man,  and  for  years  every  thought  of  his  being 
had  centered  in  his  master's  affairs.  There  was 
something  strange  about  the  letters  that  had  come 
from  America,  where  the  only  son  of  Lord  Ern- 
ruth  had  gone  into  exile  after  the  unhappy  rebel- 
lion. Since  the  old  Earl's  eyesight  had  failed, 
these  letters  had  always  been*  road  to  him  by  his 
nephew  and  next  heir.  Even  that  which  brought 
the  fatal  news  of  the  son's  death  had  been  read 
to  the  bereaved  old  man,  who  placed  so  much 
faith  in  his  nephew  that  he  never  thought  to  ques- 
tion the  faithfulness  of  his  intelligence. 

But  there  was  something  in  this  which  troubled 
Roberts— a  hesitation  in  the  reading,  and  some 
haste  in  putting  the  letters  away,  which  aroused 
his  attention.  With  the  deferential  habits  of  an 
.  old  family  servant  strong  upon  him,  he  had  not 
dared  to  mention  these  fears  or  take  any  steps  to- 
ward confirming  them ;  but  a  suspicion  possessed 
him  with  greater  force  everv  day,  and  now  it  had, 
as  if  by  inspiration,  seized  upon  the  Earl  also. 
The  will,  so  unnecessary  if  MacCrea  was  indeed 
the  true  heir,  so  iniquitous  if  he  was  not,  would 
be  annulled  that  night,  if  man  and  horse  could  be 
obtained  to  carry  a  message  to  Dublin. 

This  was  Roberts'  object  in  visiting  the  cluster 
of  fishermen's  cabins  on  the  opposite  shore.  So 
completely  had  the  servants  of  Lord  Ernruth's 
household  been  brought  under  the  nephew's  con- 
trol, that  the  faithful  old  man  dared  not  trust  his 
message  with  any  of  them.  But  there  was  a  man 
upon  the  point  lying  so  grimly  in  sight,  whose 
faith  was  undoubted.    This  man  Roberts  sought. 

Peter  Byrne  was  sitting  in  front  of  his  cabin, 
mending  a  net  and  singing  at  his  work.  He  would 
pause  now  and  then  to  look  over  his  shoulder  and 
bandy  a  word  or  two  with  some  one  inside  ;  then 
the  loud,  rollicking  words  of  his  song  would  break 
out  again, while  his  fingers  shot  the  wooden  needle 
in  and  out  of  his  net,  knitting  the  rents  together, 
and  making  the  whole  fabric  tremble  again  under 
his  energetic  handling. 

A  buxom  young  woman,  with  a  'kerchief  under 
her  chin,  came  to  the  cabin  door. 


"  Come  along,  Peter.  Do  yer  hear,  now  ?  The 
praties  are  knockin'  agin  the  lid  of  the  pot,  and 
just  bursting  their  jackets  wid  aigerness  for  the 
alter." 

"  Be  aisy — be  aisy,  Mary,  astore.  I'm  just  tyin' 
up  the  last  slit  in  me  net,  darlint.  Tumble  the 
praties  out  in  the  wooden  bowl,  and  let  the  jack- 
ets burst  if  it  plaises  'em.  Faix,  there's  no  harum 
in  it— only  save  some  of  the  mailiest  for  the  pig. 
But  never  mind ;  the  childer'll  do  that  same,  any 
way." 

The  smiling  little  woman  went  back  into  the 
cabin,  and  directly  a  curl  of  steam  came  floating 
through  the  open  door,  so  odorous  that  Peter 
dashed  through  the  tangle  of  his  net,  looped  the 
twine  right  and  left,  tying  desperate  knots,  now 
here,  now  there,  till  at  last,  after  a  vigorous  pull 
or  two,  he  bit  ofl'  a  double  thread  of  the  twine 
with  his  strong  white  teeth,  and  spurned  the  net 
to  the  ground  with  his  foot. 

"  I've  give  it  a  dash  an'  a  promise  for  the  once, 
Marv,"  he  said,  casting  up  his  arms  and  stretch- 
ing himself  full  six  feet  high  from  the  ground. 
"Now  for  the  praties— the  smell  on  'em  makes  me 
hungry.  Here,  give  me  hold.  I'll  pale  one  wid 
me  fingers,  while  I  watch  who  that  is  ccmin'  for- 
nenst.  Be  jabers,  but  this  is  a  maily  one  ye  have 
given  me.  How  ilegantly  his  brown  coat  has  bust 
open  in  front,  do  ye  see,  Mary?" 

"  In  coorse,  afther  the  pig,  ye'd  be  sartin  of  the 
best,  Peter,"  answered  the  good  wife.  "  Come  in, 
ye  spalpeens  !  Who  told  ye  to  forget  what  yer 
father  says?  an'  he  atin'  bis  supper." 

The  children  obeyed,  making  a  dart  for  the 
bowl  of  potatoes,  leaving  their  father  on  the  door- 
stone, watching  the  approach  of  Roberts  with  some 
anxiety. 

"  Mary,  astore,  come  this  minute  and  tell  me  if 
that  is  not  Misther  Roberts.  Mary,  I'm  afeard  the 
ouid  Earl  is  worse,  or  something.  Look  sharp, 
tell  me  if  it's  Roberts." 

The  little  woman  came  close  to  her  husband, 
shading  her  eyes  with  one  hand  aud  searching 
the  road. 

"Yes,  Peter;  sure  an'  it's  Roberts— walkin' 
quick,  too,  as  if  somethin'  was  the  matter." 

"Yer  right.  It's  him,  sure  enough  ;  an' walkin' 
as  brisk  as  he  did  twenty  years  agone.  Some- 
thing's amiss,  Mary." 

"  Oh,  Peter,  me  heart's  in  me  mouth !  I'm  all 
of  a  trimble.  What  it  the  ould  Lord  was  dead  an' 
gone!" 

"  Now,  be  aisy,  an'  go  in  to  the  childher.  Don't 
ye  see  that  he's  coming  because  of  the  company 
that  landed  from  the  yacht?  I  see  a  whole  boat- 
load of  'em  goin'  up  from  the  shore." 

"I  hope  it's  nothin'  worse  nor  that,"  answered 
the  wife,  shaking  her  head  doubtfully ;  "but  Mis- 
ther Roberts  doesn't  often  leave  the  masther.  I 
have  my  misdoubts,  Peter." 

A  cry  from  the  children, who,  in  the  struggle  for 
a  particular  potato,  were  rolling  o^r  and  over  on 
the  cabin  floor,  tugging  at  each  other's  hair,while 
the  pig  demurely  swallowed  the  vegetable  in  dis- 
pute, soon  took  the  little  woman  indoors.  She  was 
easily  cuffing  the  little  belligerents,  right  and 
left,  when  Roberts  came  up  and  accosted  her  hus- 
band. ^    ,  ,  , 

*'  Peter  Byrne,  I  am  glad  to  find  you  at  home. 
Step  this  way  a  moment." 

"I'll  do  that  same,"  said  Peter,  tossing  away 
the  potato  skin,  and  emptying  his  mouth  with  a 
huge   swallow.      "Anything   goin'    wrong    over 


ROCK  BTJIN;    OR,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


there  ?  Ye  look  sort  o'  quare  about  the  eyea,  I'm 
thinkin'." 

"  Nothing,  Peter ;  only  my  Lord  is  not  quite  so 
well  to-day,  and  he  wants  to  have  a  friend  brought 
down  from  Dublin." 

"What!  is  it  the  docthor?" 

"  No,  Peter ;  it's  a  lawyer  he  wants." 

"What!  and  young  Misther  MacGrea  to  the 
farm  ?  That  has  a  bad  look.  What  should  he  be 
puttin'  up  the  ould  Lord  to  send  afther  lawyers 
for?" 

"  It  isn't  for  him,  Peter.  He  knows  nothing 
about  it." 

"  Oh,  ha !  that  is  a  pig  of  t'other  stripe." 

"Lord  Ernruth  is  very  anxious  that  the  man 
Bhould  be  brought  here  privately,  and  at  the  earli- 
est moment.  That  is  what  sent  me  here,  Byrne. 
I  am  afraid  to  trust  any  of  the  servants  over  yon- 
der.   They  do  not  belong  to  the  Earl." 

Peter  nodded  his  head. 

"  So  I'm  in  search  of  a  trusty  messenger." 

"An'  Peter  Byrne's  the  man  for  ye,  out  and  out. 
Only  tell  him  what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it,  and 
he'll  bring  the  ould  Scratch  down  here  by  the 
nape  of  his  neck,  if  the  masther  wanted  him." 

"  But  you  will  want  a  horse,  Peter." 

"  That's  thrue  for  ye,  but  I'll  just  borry  one  of  a 
a  friend  I  have." 

"  But  you  must  ride  all  night." 

"In  coorse." 

"And  come  back  to-morrow,  after  dark." 

"  Wid  the  spalpeen  of  a  lawyer." 

"And  remember,  not  a  word  of  this,  Peter,  even 
to  your  wife." 

"  Sorry  a  word  will  the  darlint  get  out  of  me." 

*'  Here  is  a  letter.    You  can  read  the  address  ?" 

"  Wid  a  thrifle  o'  hard  spellin'.  But  I've  plenty 
of  time  to  make  it  out  between  this  and  Dublin." 

"  Well,  the  errand  is  simple.  Deliver  this  let- 
ter, and  then  bring  the  gentleman  down  here  at 
once.  Come  quietly  to  the  abbey,  but  let  it  be 
after  dark.  I  will  be  at  the  east  portal  to  let  you 
in  ;  or,  if  anything  prevents,  you  will  find  the  way 
open.  Come  without  hesitation  to  my  master's 
room.  But  be  cautious  about  meeting  the  ser- 
vants." 

"  I  understand." 

"  Here  is  money,  Peter— enough  to  purchase  a 
horse,  if  that  prove  necessary.  Now  go  in,  and 
set  forth  at  once." 

Peter  took  the  money,  thrust  it  deep  into  his 
pocket,  and,  taking  a  ragged  handkerchief  from 
the  crown  of  his  hat,  pushed  that  down  over  it, 
much  as  a  soldier  of  the  olden  time  used  to  force 
wadding  upon  the  charge  in  his  musket. 

"Now  I'm  ready.  Let  me  twist  me  pipe  in  the 
string  round  me  hat,  an'  it's  genteelly  I'm  fixed 
for  thravelin'  to  the  end  of  the  wurld." 

"Well,  Byrne,  see  that  there  is  no  delay.  Every 
moment  is  important." 

"  Never  fear.  Peter  Byrne  isn't  the  boy  to  let 
grass  grow  undher  his  feet,  and  the  ould  Earl 
wantin'  him  to  be  movin'." 

With  these  words  Peter  entered  his  cabin,  and 
the  faithful  old  servant  went  back  to  his  master. 


CHAPTER  II. 

There  was  riot  and  high  wassail  in  one  end 
of  the  stately  abbey,  while  death  came  with  still 
solemnity  in  the  other  wing.  The  company  which 
we  have  seen  coming  in  from  the  yacht,  feeling 
secure  in  the  thick  walls  and  ponderous  doors 


shut  them  out  from  the  old  Earl's  apartments, 
which  gave  vent  to  their  high  spirits,  and  grew  more 
convivial  than  they  might  have  been  oh  sbipboard. 
The  presence  of  sickness  or  death,  if  it  does  not 
sadden,  often  produces  a  reckless  abandon  of  hu- 
man feeling.  This  sometimes  springs  fi'om  mere 
nervous  excitement,  which  is,  after  all,  deep  feel- 
ing run  wild ;  or  it  may  be  it  has  its  source  m  that 
reckless  audacity  which  smothers  all  holy  sympa- 
thies as  they  are  trod  under  foot. 

I  do  not  think,  however,  that  the  guests  who 
were  at  high  wassail  in  the  old  abbey  had  any 
idea  how  close  death  was  to  them.  True,  an  old 
man,  whom  few  of  them  had  ever  seen,  lay  sick 
under  the  roof  which  sheltered  them.  But  he  had 
been  infirm  and  ailing  for  years.  The  illness  and 
afterwards  the  death  of  his  only  sou  had  broken 
him  down  completelv.  The  most  stately  and 
proud  old  noble  in  all  Ireland  was  suffering  the 
slow  death  of  a  broken  heart.  But  he  had  been  a 
long  time  in  dying,  and  some  of  these  people— the 
nephew  particularly — considered  this  as  a  per- 
sonal wrong.  Why  did  the  old  man  hold  the  deeds 
of  that  princely  estate,  year  after  year,  in  those 
feeble  hands  ?  It  was  an  imposition  on  the  next 
heir.  Indeed,  death  loses  half  the  solemnity  of 
his  presence  when  he  lingers  so  long,  and  is 
watched  for  as  those  men  were  watching. 

This  was  the  subject  of  conversation  as  these 
men  sat,  late'  at  night,  around  the  table  which  had 
been  spread  for  them  on  the  sly,  as  one  of  the 
guests  observed  while  examining  the  ruby  tints 
of  his  wine,  as  he  held  the  long-stemmed  Vene- 
tian glass,  which  was  but  half  drained,  against  the 
light. 

"Why,"  said  this  man,  languidly  slanting  the 
wine  in  his  glass—"  why  can't  a  man  give  up  and 
go  off  quietly,  when  he  has  outlived  the  enjoy- 
ments of  life  ?  It  is  a  swindle  on  his  heirs  to  hang 
on  after  this  fashion." 

"I  fancy  you'd  think  so,"  broke  in  MaCrea, 
with  a  bitter  laugh,  "  if  you'd  hung  on  the  out- 
skirts of  an  estate  as  I  have.  By  Jupiter !  the  one 
up  yonder  has  a  good  deal  to  account  for." 

"And  I  fancy  his  kin  may  have  a  good  deal  to 
account  for  when  he  comes  into  the  estates,"  said 
a  quiet-looking  individual  at  the  foot  of  the  table, 
who  had  spoken  but  little  during  the  whole 
evening. 

It  was  generally  understood  that  MacCrea  was 
deeply  indebted  to  this  man,  and  the  ho  was  not 
less  eager  than  his  principal  to  see  the  vast  es- 
tates of  Lord  Ernruth  fall  into  the  reckless  hands 
of  the  next  kin. 

The  company  laughed,  even  MacCrea  himself. 

"  Is  there  not  an  old  firoverb  about  heirs  going 
barefoot  who  wait  for  dying  men's  shoes  ?"  cried 
another  of  the  guests,  who  had  crowded  half  a 
dozen  wine  flasks  around  him,  and  was  now  flank- 
ing them  with  crystal  dishes  full  of  rich,  variously 
tinted  fruit,  producing  gorgeous  confusion  on  his 
side  of  the  table,  and  speaking  in  a  broken .  husky 
way,  which  explained  why  the  wine,  both  red  and 
amber,   had  sunk  so  near  the  botton  in  those 

crowded  flasks.      "For   my  part .    Well,  no 

matter,  it  will  be  a  jolly  time  when  it  comes,  at 
any  rate,  for  the  money  lenders.  But  I  say,  Mac, 
it  must  have  been  dull  staying  in  this  grim  place 
waiting  for  the  old  man  to  go  off.  Hang  me  if 
I  could!  Well,  no  matter.  By  Jupiter!  what  is 
that?" 

The  man  started  up  as  he  spoke  and  overthrew 
a  decanter  of  Bohemian  glass,  which  sent  a  gush 


ROCK  RUIN;   OR,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


of  wine  over  the  table  that  settled  in  the  center  of 
the  snowy  cloth  in  a  lake  of  purplish  red. 

".What— what?"  was  the  general  exclamation; 
and  the  guests  started  up,  some  steadying  them- 
selves by  the  table,  and  others  clinging  desper- 
ately to  the  backs  of  the  chairs  they  had  aban- 
doned. 

What  was  it  ?  Nothing  but  the  pale  face  of  an 
old  man,who  looked  in  on  that  bacchanaUan  revel 
for  an  instant  and  disappeared  again.  How 
strangely  white  and  cold  ft  was, -contrasted  with 
the  flushed  countenances  and  misty  atmosphere 
in  the  room. 

"Ha— ha  I  How  he  frightened  you !  By  Jupi- 
ter !  that  is  good !  Sit  down  and  punish  the  wine 
for  it.  Why,  it's  only  the  Earl's  own  man  prowl- 
ing about,  as  usual.  Let  him  do  it.  Who  cares? 
The  governor  is  too  far  gone  for  me  to  fear  his  re- 
port.'^ 

MacCrea  fell  into  his  chair  as  he  spoke,  and 
folding  his  arms  on  the  table,  began  shaking  his 
head  menacingly  at  the  door.  The  guests  fell  in- 
to place  again,  and  there  was  a  general  clash  of 
glasses  striking  an  irregular  chorus  to  a  hunting 
song  which  some  one  struck  up. 

In  the  midst  of  the  confusion  one  of  the  guests, 
who  had  maintained  a  grave  silence  all  the  even- 
ing, arose  and  glided  from  the  room.  The  white 
face  had  been  turned  upon  him  when  it  looked 
through  the  door,  and  as  it  retreated  a  signal  was 
given,  which  he  obeyed. 

Old  Koberts  stood  in  the  darkness  of  a  passage 
beyond  the  banqueting  chamber.  It  was  his  face 
that  had  startled  the  revelers. 

The  old  servant  came  forward  in  great  agitation. 
He  was  shaking  from  head  to  foot,  and  seiijed  upon 
the  arm  of  the  stranger  with  a  grasp  that  made  him 
wince. 

"I  have  seen  you  before,  sir,  in  Dublin,  when 
my  master  was  at  his  town  house.  You  are  a 
lawyer,  I  know,  for  it  was  when  the  family  solicitor 
was  away  that  you  came  in  his  place." 

"  Weir  I  remember  the  time.  But  what  is  it  dis- 
tresses you  ?  Why  did  you  beckon  me  out  of  the 
room  ?" 

"Come  with  me.  The  Earl  is  very  ill.  I  fear 
he  may  not  live  beyond  the  morning.  He  cannot 
rest— he  cannot  die  in  peace— until  something  he 
wishes  is  done." 

"  Is  it  a  clergyman  or  lawyer  he  wants?" 

"First  a  lawyer— then  the  priest.  Will  you 
come  ?" 

The  lawyer  hesitated.  Self-interest  would  have 
kept  him  away,  but  he  was  a  man  far  above  the 
level  of  those  with  whom  he  had  just  been  asso- 
ciated,' and  the  scenes  he  had  witnessed  that 
evening  were  calculated  to  arouse  all  the  gener- 
ous indignation  of  a  naturally  fine  nature.  He 
had  been  brought  down  to  the  abbey  to  transact 
some  loan  to  be  secured  upon  the  estates,  subject 
to  the  death  of  the  present  owner,  the  principal 
parties  of  which  sat  over  their  wine  in  the  next 
room.  At  first  he  was  ignorant  of  the  condition 
of  the  old  Earl,  and  when  he  learned  it  from  the 
brutal  jocularity  of  his  companions,  every  fine 
feeling  of  bis  heart  revolted  at  the  task  he  had 
undertaken. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  consideration. 
"  Show  me  to  your  master's  room  ;  if  he  needs  me 
I  will  help  him." 

Koberts  withdrew  his  hand,  drawing  a  deep 
breath,  while  his  eyes  filled  with  grateful  tears. 

"  This  way,  sir.    It  is  in  the  other  wing." 


The  two  men  threaded"  their  way  along  many  a 
dim  passage  and  vast  room  to  the  apartments  in 
which  the  old  Earl  was  dying.  As  he  approached 
the  sick  room,  Roberts  trod  more  and  more  cau- 
tiously, and  the  lawyer  subdued  his  walk  and 
breathed  low. 

"Has  he  come?  Did  you  hear  anything  of 
Byrne?"  questioned  a  voice,  so  feeble  that  it 
could  not  have  been  heard  a  yard  from  the  bed, 
but  for  the  profound  stillness  that  reigned  in  that 
part  of  the  building. 

"  No,  my  master ;  he  has  not  yet  come  back. 
But » 

A  low  moan  broke  from  the  invalid,  and  he 
struggled  amid  his  pillows. 

"  He  must  come — oh,  Boberts,he  must  come,  or 
my  death  will  accomplish  a  terrible  wrong !" 

The  old  man  half  rose  in  bed  and  made  a  move- 
ment to  get  up.  His  eyes  were  strangely  bright, 
bis  thin  face  resolute  as  iron. 

"  Help  me,  Eoberts.  Bring  pen  and  ink— parch- 
ment, too.  I  will  leave  at  least  an  explanation 
and  a  protest.  As  I  near  the  gates  of  eternity  my 
heart  turns  back,  yearning  towaid  the  earth.  My 
son  is  here— I  shall  not  meet  him  up  yonder —bo 
is  here." 

Roberts  went  close  to  the  bed  and  gently  put 
the  old  man  back  hpon  his  pillows. 

"Be  content,  my  master.  Byrne  may  be  here 
yet.  But  I  have  found  the  person  you  want.  You 
have  seen  this  gentleman  before  ;  he  was  once  a 
partner  in  your  own  solicitor's  office." 

Lord  Ernruth  turned  his  bright  eyes  on  the 
man  who  stood  a  little  behind  his  servant,  and 
a  gleam  of  satisfaction  shone  in  them. 

"It  is  well.  Bring  the  parchment.  Sit— sit 
down,  sir.  I  fear  we  have  brief  time.  Be  quick, 
Roberts,  now." 

The  Earl  settled  heavily  back  and  closed  his 
eyes,  concentrating  his  thoughts.  A  moment  of 
dead  silence,  and  then  ho  began  to  dictate  a  will. 
He  was  a  strong  man,  tbis  old  Irish  nobleman, 
even  in  his  weakness.  The  vitality  of  that  all- 
powerful  affection,  which  gives  so  much  of  pure 
romance  to  the  nation,  kept  death  in  check.  In 
his  eagerness,  he  arose  to  his  elbow,  and  sup- 
ported himself  in  a  half-sitting  position,  smiling 
sweetly  upon  the  old  servant,  who  would  have 
helped  him,  and  saying,  in  a  rather  strong  voice : 

"No-no  ;  I  feel  young  again." 

Roberts  shook  his  head  mournfully,  and  leaning 
against  one  of  the  great  fluted  posts  which  sup- 
ported the  canopy  of  rich  silt,  all  black  with 
shadows,  that  rustled  its  folds  over  the  dying  no- 
ble, he  stood  in  pale  silence,  watching  the  law- 
yer's pen  as  it  ran  over  the  parchment. 

While  this  scene  was  going  on  in  one  wing  of 
the  building,  another— ah,  how  different !— was 
being  enacted  in  that  where  the  nephew  had  as- 
sembled his  guests.  Amid  the  general  confusion 
they  had  not  obsei-ved  the  lawyer  when  he  ghded 
from  the  room,  but  after  a  few  moments  an  empty 
chair  betrayed  his  absence,  and  a  clamor  arose 
w^hich  sent  MacCrao  out  in  search  of  the  missing 
man.  Three  or  four  of  the  guests  rushed  out 
with  him,  carrying  the  confused  voices  and  rush- 
ing steps  into  the  passage  beyond  the  festive 
saloon.  Two  dim  figures  were  seen  in  the  dis- 
tance, moving  cautiously  through  the  darkness. 
They  seemed  disturbed  by  the  burst  of  noise  and 
light  which  came  from  tho  saloon,  and  paused  a 
moment,  looking  back. 

"There  he  is,  sneaking  oft"  before  the  third 
bottle !"  cried  MacCrea.   "  After  him— after  him  I" 


nOGK  E¥IN;   OB,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


The  whole  party  plunged  forward,  laughing  and 
riotous,  while  the  two  figures  in  the  passage 
looked  about,  evidently  bewildered,  and  doubtful 
which  way  to  move. 

"Well,  lead  on,"  said  one  of  these  men,  impa- 
tiently. "Whoever  these  persona  are,  we  care 
nothing  for  them.  Which  of  these  passages  do  we 
take?" 

"  Faix,  yer  honor,  I  was  just  axin'  that  meself. 
In  the  daytime  there  is  no  fear  of  me  losin'  me 
way  in  the  ould  place ;  but  this  darkness  bates  me, 
out  and  out." 

"Then  what  are  we  to  do?"  asked  the  first 
voice. 

"Why,  yor  honor,  just  hide  ourselves  nately, 
till  them  rapscallions  of  gintlemen  have  swag- 
gered ofi"  till  their  rooms,  and  then  we  can  try 
both  passages  ;  an'  if  one  isn't  right,  sure  t'other 
will  be." 

"  But  there  is  no  place." 

"Just  step  into  this  thunderin'  big  shaddy,  yer 
honor.  That  chap  carries  his  candle  so  unsteady 
that  it  will  go  out  afore  he  comes  farneant  us. 
Then  there'll  be  a  scrimmage,  and  they'll  go  back 
agin  for  another  light,  bad  luck  to  'em." 

But  Peter  Byrne  was  mistaken.  JSIotwithstand- 
ing  the  waving  motion  of  that  candle,  the  only 
one  left  in  a  great  silver  branch,  which  MacCrea 
had  seized  on  leaving  the  table— notwithstanding 
that  it  was  sometimes  starting  one  way,  then  an- 
other, jerked  into  sudden  perpendicular  with  the 
drunken  ferocity  of  its  holder,  the  flame  burned 
on,  and  much  to  Byrne's  dismay,  scattered  the 
shadows  in  which  he  and  the  Dublin  solicitor  had 
taken  refuge,  as  the  sun  breaks  through  a  thun- 
der-cloud. 

"Ho— hoi  here  thej^  are!  Seize  'em-seize 
'em  1  No  shirking  I  Seize  'em  1  for  there's  two, 
if  we  are  not  all  seeing  double.  Lay  hold  of  the 
traitors  and  bring  'em  in !" 

Amid  these  exclamations  the  candle  dropped 
from  its  socket,  and  was  trampled  under  foot. 
Then  the  noise  was  renewed,  and  amid  a  riot  of 
voices  and  heavy  shuffling  of  feet,  Peter  Byrne 
and  Lord  Ernruth's  solicitor  were  dragged  into 
the  blazing  light  of  the  saloon. 

"  By  Jupiter !  it's  Hutton,  and— and .    Why, 

hound,  what  business  have  you  at  the  abbey?" 

These  exclamations  and  questions  came  from 
MacCrea,  who  seized  Peter  Byrne  by  the  coat-col- 
lar, and  but  for  the  massive  strength  of  the  young 
Irishman,  would  have  lifted  him  from  his  feet. 

"What  am  I  doin'?  Faix,  nothin' atal.  Only 
it's  the  natur  of  me  to  follow  the  smell  of  the  cra- 
tlier;  and  it's  mighty  strong  here,  anyway,"  an- 
swered Peter,  settling  himself  in  his  coat  and 
seizing  a  ponderous  candlestick,  which  he  con- 
verted into  a  shelalah  at  once.  "  Only  just  take 
yer  grip  from  mo  collar,  if  ye  plase,  for  I'm  mighty 
ticklish  about  the  neck ;  and  it's  apt  to  get  into 
me  hand,  ye  see." 

"  The  man  came  with  me,"  said  the  solicitor, 
firmly. 

"And,  by  Jupiter!  what  are  you  doing  in  my 
uncle's  house  at  this  time  of  night,  if  it  comes  to 
that?"  exclaimed  MacCrea,  completely  sobered  by 
the  discovery  he  had  made. 

"  I  am  here  by  your  uncle's  request,  and,  exact- 
ly as  he  directed  me,  was  going  to  his  room,"  was 
the  grave  reply  to  MacCrea's  intemperate  speech. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  his  room  at  this 
time  of  the  night  for,  if  it  is  not  impertinent  to 
ask  ?" 


"It  is  impertinent." 

"  How  ?  Do  you  know,  sir,  who  is  master 
here  ?" 

"  Not  exactly,  but  I  possibly  shall  before  morn- 
ing," said  the  solicitor,  with  a  grim  smile. 

"Indeed!  Do  you  understand  that,  gentle- 
men?" cried  MacCrea.  "  This  person  threatens 
us !" 

The  company  were  struck  dumb.  Most  of  the 
persons  who  composed  it  had  lent  money  to  Mac- 
Crea, on  the  chance  of  his  succession  to  Lord 
Ernruth's  estates ;  and  they  understood,  in  a  con- 
fused way,  that  the  presence  of  a  solicitor,  sent 
by  express  from  Dublin,  boded  no  good  to  their 
claims. 

"  Mr.  MacCrea,  will  you  have  the  goodness  to 
order  a  servant  to  show  me  the  way  to  Lord  Ern- 
ruth's rooms?  I  must  see  him  at  once,"  said 
Hutton,  looking  around  on  the  group  of  men  and 
the  ruins  of  the  feast  with  calm  contempt. 

"  By  Jupiter,  I  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind !  No 
man  living  shall  prowl  round  my  uncle's  house 
after  this  fashion  while  I  am  its  master." 

"Then  we  must  find  the  room  for  ourselves. 
Lead  the  way,  Byrne." 

Peter  turned  and  marched  into  the  passage. 
Hutton  was  about  to  follow  him,  but  as  he  reached 
the  threshold  the  door  was  flung  to  with  a  crash, 
and  he  was  thrown  against  the  table  with  such 
force  that  a  salver  and  a  cluster  of  delicate  Bohe- 
mian glasses  fell  to  the  floor,  covering  it  with  a 
gorgeous  storm  of  broken  glass,  wine,  fruit,  and 
nuts,  which  were  instantly  trampled  down  by  a 
rush  of  feet. 

In  the  midst  of  this  confusion  a  key  was  turned 
heavily  and  jerked  from  its  lock.  MacCrea  held  it 
a  moment,  irresolute,  when  it  was  snatched  from 
his  grasp  and  whirled  out  of  the  open  win- 
dow. 

"  By  Jupiter,  that  puts  an  end  to  the  whole  mat- 
ter!" cried  MacCrea,  turning  a  half-frightened 
look  from  his  companions  to  Hutton.  "  It  wasn't 
my  work,  you  know.  By  .Jupiter,  I  haven't  au 
idea  who  sent  the  key  whirling!  So  now  sit 
down,  that's  a  good  fellow,  and  help  us  make  a 
night  of  it." 

Hutton  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  down. 
It  was  full  thirty  feet  from  the  ground,  and  noth- 
ing to  break  the  descent.  He  turned  away  and 
tried  the  lock.    It  was  ponderous  and  strong. 

"There,  you  see  it's  of  no  use,"  cried  MacCrea. 
"  We're  a  jolly  set  of  prisoners,  all  in  the  same 
box,  with  plenty  of  wine  in  the  coolers,  and  eata- 
bles enough  to  stand  a  dozen  crashes  like  that. 
Come,  Hutton,  take  the  great  chair.  It's  of  genu- 
ine native  oak,  dug  up  from  the  estate,  and  pre- 
sented to  the  Earl  by  a  deputation  of  the  tenants. 
It's  the  seat  of  honor.  My  friends,  give  Hutton 
the  great  chair." 

"  I  will  take  it,"  said  the  solicitor,  seating  him- 
self, "if  it  wore  only  to  save  it  from  further  dese- 
cration." 

MacCrea  raised  a  wine-glass  and  emptied  its 
amber  contents  into  a  long-necked  glass. 

"Come,  be  a  good  fellow,  now,  and  join  in. 
Here's  something  that  will  make  your  eyes 
sparkle !" 

Hutton  leaned  forward,  his  face  grave,  his 
manner  firm.  He  sat  within  the  huge  chair, 
looming  above  him  in  heavy  masses  of  carving, 
with  one  delicate  hand  grasping  the  arm,  and  his 
spare,  intellectual  face  turned  upon  bis  tor' 
mentors. 


BOCK  BVIN;   OB,  THE  BAUOHTEB  OF  THE  ISLAND 


"  No,"  be  said,  "  I  will  take  no  wine  so  offered, 
under  the  roof  of  a  dying  man." 

"A  dying  man  1"  exclaimed  several  voices,  now 
scarcely  raised  above  a  whisper. 

"  Yes,  gentlemen.  It  was  because  the  Earl  of 
Ernruth  felt  himself  to  be  dying  that  I  was  sent 
for." 

"And  what  did  he  want  you  for  ?"  cried  Mac- 
Crea,  setting  down  the  Venetian  glass,  for  his  un- 
steady hand  was  spilling  the  wine. 

"  To  make  his  will,  I  believe,"  was  the  cold  an- 
swer. 

"  To  make  his  will  1  Now,  I  like  that.  It's  on  a 
level  with  what  you  say  about  his  dying.  As  if  his 
will  wasn't  already  made  !  Do  you  think  the  old 
man  would  let  his  title  go  one  way  and  the  estates 
another  ?  Then,  as  to  his  dying.  Didn't  we  find 
him  at  the  window  iust  wheu  it  was  deucedly  in- 
convenient ?    That  8  all  talk." 

Hutton  made  no  reply,  but  leaned  back  in  the 
chair  and  closed  his  eyes,  hoping  that  the  Earl 
might  indeed  be  better  than  he  supposed. 

"  Well,  then,  if  he  will  be  unsociable,  let  us 
drink  to  his  better  notion,"  cried  the  host,  lifting 
the  glass  he  had  filled  and  drainmg  it.  "  If  ho 
will  bring  a  death's-head  to  the  table,  let  us 
drown  it  in  jolly  libations." 

Then  commenced  one  of  those  revolting  revels 
that  are  so  repulsive,  from  the  forced  spirits  which 
show  their  falsehood.  The  whole  party  had  re- 
ceived a  shock  that  no  wine  could  dissipate  and 
no  forced  mirth  conceal.  Wine  flowed  more  copi- 
ously than  before,  but  the  effect  was  heavy  and 
revolting.  Instead  of  mirth,  the  debauches  pro- 
duced only  ludicrous  braggadocia. 

"  Talk  about  wills,"  said  MacCrea.  "  What's  the 
use  ?    The  old  man  took  care  of  all  that  months 

o.  You  don't  believe  it  ?    Ha  I   Then  look  here ! 

hat  do  you  think  of  that  document  ?" 

He  thrust  his  hand  under  his  vest  and  brought 
out  a  folded  parchment,  and  shook  it  open  before 
Hutton. 

"  There  1  Do  you  know  that  signature  ?  Is  it 
all  in  order  ?  took,  gentlemen.  Is  your  money 
secure,  think  ?" 

While  the  parchment  trembled  in  his  hand  a 
heavy  knock  was  heard  at  the  door. 

"  Itallo !    What  is  it  ?"  shouted  MacCrea. 

"  The  Earl  is  dead— the  Earl  is  dead !"  wailed  a 
voice  from  the  passage. 

MacCrea  sunk  to  his  chair,  white  as  death.  A 
hush  fell  upon  the  room.  One  man  had  dropped  a 
flask  in  the  shock,  and  a  gurgle  of  wine,  as  it 
flowed  from  the  neck  and  formed  a  blood-red  riv- 
ulet down  the  center  of  the  table,  rose  up  through 
the  stillness  like  a  chuckle  of  delight. 

The  solicitor  arose,  and  casting  a  look  of  stem 
indignation  on  the  group  around  the  table, walked 
to  the  window  and  Yeaned  out.  The  atmosphere 
of  those  men  stifled  him. 

MacCrea  left  his  chair  and  came  to  the  win- 
dow. 

"  It  was  only  a  joke,  you  know, '  he  said,  abject- 
ly. "  Besides,  it  wasn't  me  that  threw  the  key 
away.  If  I'd  known  how  near  the  end  was,  I'd 
have  jumped  out  of  the  window  to  let  you  out." 

"You  have  done  a  thing  which  will  embitter 
your  whole  life,  if  you  are  an  honest  man,"  said 
the  solicitor,  contrasting  the  pale  refinement  of 
his  face  against  the  flushed  features  of  the  young 
heir.  "  You  have  crossed  the  wishes  of  a  "dying 
man,  thus  securing  your  own  interests." 

"  But  how  should  I  know  ?    He  has  been  on  the 


ag 
Wl 


brink  of  dying  a  dozen  times.  Besides,  it's  ali 
nonsense  thinking  that  he  wanted  you  about  an- 
other will.  It  isn't  twenty-four  hours  since  he 
gave  this  into  my  hands,  with  directions  that  it 
should  be  placed  in  your  keeping.  It  was  for 
this  he  sent  to  bring  vou  down.  I  refused  to  take 
it  from  the  abbey  till  you  came  and  relieved  me 
of  it." 

"Is  this  true?"  questioned  Hutton,  searching 
the  face  with  his  keen  eyes. 

"Upon  my  word— on  my  honor." 

"Then  I  will  take  the  will." 

"And  wait  for  the  funeral  and  other  cere- 
monies ?     Will  you  do  tha-t  ?" 

"  It  is  my  duty,"  answered  the  solicitor,  receiv- 
ing the  folded  parchment  which  MacCrea  held  to- 
ward him. 

"  I  shall  not  forget  this,  Hutton— never  fear.  If 
the  old  man  up  yonder  was  liberal  to  you,  his  gen- 
erosity shan't  outdo  mine." 

The  solicitor  bowed  coldly ;  grave  doubts  were 
returning  upon  him.  The  words  of  the  heir 
seemed  too  much  like  a  bribe. 

While  the  two  stood  by  the  window,  silvery 
gleams  came  through  the  gray  of  the  east.  The 
dawn  was  breaking. 

A  little  after,  one  of  the  gardeners,  passing  to 
his  early  work.was  hailed  from  the  window  by  his 
new  master,  and  ordered  to  search  among  the 
flower-beds  for  a  key  that  had  been  accidentally 
dropped.  This  man  was  a  long  time  searching 
for  the  key,  while  the  group  of  revelers  stood  to- 
gether in  the  soft  dawn  of  the  morning,  haggard 
and  ashamed. 

At  last  the  door  was  opened,  and  they  went 
forth  one  by  one,  without  lifting  their  eyes  to  the 
solicitor's  face,  who  stood  before  them  in  the 
calm  dignity  of  ms  character,  in  heart  and  looks 
a  superior  being,  whose  very  presence  was  a  re- 
buke. 

Three  days  after  this,  a  funeral  cortege  swept 
darkly  out  of  the  abbey,  and  wound  its  solemn 
course  around  the  curve  of  the  bay,  toward  a  lit- 
tle chapel  which  stood  upon  a  ridge  of  high  land 
overlooking  the  sea.  One  standing  near  this 
chapel  could  have  seen  the  funereal  train  wind- 
ing its  black  length  in  and  out,  on  the  sands  and 
among  the  foliage,  till  it  clustered  in  a  mournful 
cloud  around  the  tomb  where  many  a  lord  of  Ern- 
ruth lay  sleeping  without  his  coronet. 

When  the  crimson  cofiin  was  laid  in  the  notch 
where  it  was  to  grow  dim  and  molder  into  dust, 
many  an  old  man  shook  his  head  and  sighed,  with 
a  remembrance  of  the  young  lord  who  had  been 
thrown  into  a  strange  land  to  die  in  exile,  and 
many  a  heavy  heart  grew  heavier  with  anxiety 
when  the  chief  mourner  passed  from  the  tomb  to 
his  stately  carriage. 

At  last  the  old  Earl  was  left  alone,  like  his  an- 
cestors, only  in  a  fresher  and  brighter  cofBn.  No, 
not  quite  alone  ;  for  Koberts,  the  most  faithful  re- 
tainer that  ever  a  man  had,  lingered  by  the  tomb 
till  it  was  sealed  up.  Then,  with  his  eyes  fixed 
wistfully  on  the  sea,  he  went  slQwly  away,  but  not 
to  the  home  that  had  been  his  master's. 

They  gathered  in  the  vast  drawing  room,  to  hear 
Earl  Ernruth's  will,  a  few  distant  relatives.  The 
man  who  had  once  been  MacCrea,  and  some  of 
the  friends  who  had  held  the  orgies  in  the  abbey 
when  the  Earl  was  struggling  with  his  death-pang, 
were  present. 

The  will  was  read,  confirming  only  what  the 
law  would  have  given  to  the  next  of  kin,  and  the 


BOCK  BUIN;   OB,  THE  DAUGHTEB  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


nephew  was  now  congratulated  as  the  Earl  of 
Ernruth. 

It  was  what  every  one  had  expected,  but  those 
who  thought  deeply  wondered  that  a  man  of  the 
late  Lord's  astute  mind  should  have  thought  it 
worth  while  to  leave  a  document  which  merely 
echoed  the  provisions  made  by  law. 

Among  the  guests  who  had  remained  for  the 
funeral  was  the  lawyer  who  had  been  so  mysteri- 
ously called  to  Lord  Ernruth's  chamber  that 
night.  He  seemed  very  restless  during  the  read- 
ing of  the  will,  and  watched  the  door  with  great 
anxiety,  as  if  he  expected  some  one  to  enter.  But 
no  person  came.  As  the  company  were  about  to 
breakup,  he  arose  and  proclaimed  that  another 
and  more  recent  will  had  been  made  by  the  Earl 
on  the  very  night  of  his  death,  in  behalf  of  a  son 
whom  the  Earl  pt^rsisted  in  believing  alive  and 
still  in  exile,  though  he  had  been  reported  dead. 
The  lawyer  declared  that  he  had  himself  drawn 
up  this  will,  seen  it  duly  executed,  and  witnessed 
by  Roberts,  an  old  servant,  and  a  woman  whom 
he  believed  to  be  the  housekeeper.  But  when 
called  upon  by  the  heir  to  produce  the  will  the 
lawyer  proclaimed  his  inability.  By  the  Earl's 
direction  it  had  been  placed  in  the  hands  of  the 
witness  Roberts,  and  he  was  nowhere  to  be 
found. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  LONG  timber  raft  was  moored  by  a  tall  clifiF 
in  one  of  our  great  Western  rivers.  The  spot 
was  so  picturesque  that  had  the  raftsmen  been 
a  band  of  wandering  artists  instead  of  rude 
laborers,  they  could  not  have  chosen  a  more 
lovely  position. 

A  little  above  them  the  river  made  a  sudden 
curve,  and  the  river  was  shut  in  by  a  stately  pile 
of  rocks,  covered  with  verdure  and  crowned 
with  tall  trees,  which  took  in  all  sorts  of  capri- 
cious groupings,  many  of  them  bending  down 
their  branches  as  if  struggling  to  dip  them  in 
the  clear  waters  beneath. 

Below  the  cliff,  where  the  raft  was  moored,  a 
sweep  of  the  blue  waters  miles  down  the  river 
was  visible,  brightened  by  the  rising  sun.  Great 
wreaths  of  mist  went  floating  up,  turning  to 
gold  in  the  light,  or  drifted  slowly  down  the  cur- 
rent, like  the  sails  of  some  bark  lost  in  the 
deep  shadow  which  lay  along  the  left  hand 
shore. 

Just  where  the  raft  was  moored  the  cliflF  swept 
back  from  the  river's  edge  for  the  space  of  a 
hundred  feet,  leaving  one  of  those  green,  open 
spots  M'hich  so  often  astonish  one  in  a  primeval 
wilderness,  smooth  as  the  most  carefully  shaven 
lawn,  and  dotted  with  great  trees,  which  spread 
out  an  expanse  of  branches  totally  unlike  the 
close  growth  in  the  forest  back. 

The  men  had  brought  down  great  branches 
of  spruce  and  hemlock  the  night  before  for 
their  beds,  and  erected  over  it  a  graceful  bough 
house,  forming  a  shelter  as  comfortable  and 
much  more  picturesque  than  any  dwelling  could 
have  done. 

A  great  fire  of  logs  was  burning  near  the 
river's  edge,  sending  up  a  volume  of  clear 
flame  and  showers  of  sparks  that  shone  in  the 
pure  atmosphere  like  a  crowd  of  belated  fire^ 
flies. 

Several  of  the  men  wore  busied  about  tho  fire 
preparing   broakfaat.   otherw  oecupipd  on  the 


which  no  artist  could  have  seen  without  being 
impelled  to  sketch  forthwith. 

Certainly,  although  the  viands  were  of  the 
most  ordinary  description,  no  mortal  could 
have  seen  them  frizzling  and  crackling  over 
the  fire  in  the  clear  morning  air  without  hav- 
ing felt  that  it  was  to  be  a  feast  which  might 
have  given  the  most  pampered  gourmand  an 
appetite. 

Slices  of  pork,  cut  in  an  artistic  manner, 
were  frizzling  in  a  long-handled  frying-pan, 
and  rapidly  turning  to  the  deep  mottled  amber 
brown  which  proves  perfection  in  the  cooking. 
One  of  the  men  had  followed  up  a  mountain 
brook,  that  came  foaming  down  to  the  river 
near  the  encampment,  and  had  returned  with  a 
string  of  trout,  that  were  now  lying  in  the 
frying-pan  with  the  slices  of  {)ork,  their  red 
sides  swelling  out  with  a  seemingly  conscious 
importance,  as  if  they  really  knew  how  worthy 
they  were  of  being  daintily  prepared.  One  of 
the  men,  skilled  in  the  finer  touches  of  cookery, 
had  volunteered  to  bake  a  short-cake,  which 
he  was  watching  with  the  utmost  solicitude  as 
it  stood  tilted  up  before  the  fire  on  a  piece  of 
boat  bark. 

Altogether,  as  I  said,  the  repast  promised  to 
be  of  the  most  appetizing  sort,  and  the  scene 
was  singularly  pleasant  and  striking. 

The  men  were  merry  as  men  who  have 
healthful  labor  to  perform  and  few  cares  to 
trouble  them  are  wont  to  be,  and  the  old  woods 
rang  with  laughter  and  jests,  which  were  no 
less  hearty  from  their  being  expressed  in  some- 
what ungrammatical  language,  astonishing  the 
very  birds  that  had  always  been  in  the  habit 
of  considering  the  place  their  own,  and  exciting 
the  utmost  wonderment  in  the  minds  of  a  flock 
of  blue  jays,  who  flew  wildly  about,  chattering 
and  screaming  their  astonishment  in  every  key 
and  tone  possible  for  the  blue  jay  throat  to  ar- 
ticulate. 

Seated  at  a  little  distance  from  the  shore  was 
an  old  man,  who  evidently  did  not  belong  to  the 
party  of  hardy  raftsmen  with  whom  he  had  been 
thrown  for  the  time. 

He  still  clung  to  the  obsolete  dress  of  the 
early  part  of  the  century,  and  added  one  more 
picturesque  object  to  the  scene,  as  he  sat  lean- 
ing back  against  the  trunk  of  a  pine,  his  with- 
ered hands  locked  over  his  knees,  and  his  long 
white  hair  falling  smoothly  down  upon  his  bent 
shoulders. 

The  face  was  remarkable  for  its  expression 
of  honesty  and  patient  endurance  ;  he  looked 
feeble,  and  unfit  to  bear  the  exposure  of  a  jour- 
neylike that ;  but  one  could  see  how  some  great 
resolution  sustained  him,  and  enabled  him  to 
bear  up  under  the  double  burden  of  hardship 
and  old  age. 

When  the  signal  was  given  for  breakfast,  he 
rose  slowly  from  the  ground^  but  a  young  man 
called  out  to  him  : 

"  Sit  still— sit  still,  old  gentleman  ;  you  don't 
look  fit  for  stirring  round  this  morning.  I'll 
bring  you  a  plate  of  fixin's." 

He  hurried  up  with  a  tin  plate  heaped  with 
the  most  carefully  frizzled  pork  and  potatoes, 
aqd  a  great  mug  of  coffee,  showing  a  dogree  of 
kindness  and  solicitude  one  would  hfti'dly  have 
expected  to  find  in  one  so  hn-rdy  an4  ffiUgli- 

"  That'll  put  vim  into  yoii,"  he  m\^i  with  a 

henrty,  rirtgiu^^  \m^\h   '''Notyfirsfe  geb  out^itle 


10 


f<    /.T/  A  :    >>/,\    ///, 


rriK  IHLA 


of  every  bit  as  fast  as  you  can,  and  be  ready  for 
another  dose." 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you,"  the  old  man 
answered;  "you've  more  thought  in  ye  than 
many  a  one  of  your  age." 

"Well,  you  see,  I've  got  an  old  father  of  my 
own,  and  that  kind  o'  makes  a  fellow  think  how 
he'd  want  him  treated  if  he  was  off  on  a  scam- 
per like  that  you've  had." 

"  It's  almost  over,"  murmured  the  old  man, 
in  a  voice  which  did  not  reach  the  other's  ear ; 
"almost  over;  and  then,  God  willing,  I  can 
rest." 

His  face  showed  that  he  was  thinking  of  that 
long,  peaceful  rest  which  puts  an  end  to  all 
suffering  and  pain  ;  and  thoughtless  and  unlet- 
tered as  the  young  man  was,  ho  could  not  but 
be  struck  by  the  look  of  patient  resignation 
which  settled  upon  his  face,  like  the  reflex  of 
an  inward  prayer. 

After  the  old  man  had  finished  his  meal,  he 
remained  quietly  in  his  seat,  while  the  bustle 
of  preparation  went  on ;  and  when  the  raft  was 
ready  to  get  under  way,  took  his  place  upon  it, 
and  '  sat  looking  intently  down  the  beautiful 
stream,  as  he  had  passed  most  of  the  time  dur- 
ing that  monotonous  journey. 

Tue  current  was  deep'  and  swift,  and  soon 
bore  the  raft  away  from  the  picturesque  spot 
which  had  been  so  animated  an  hour  before. 
The  smoke  curled  slowly  up  from  the  smoulder- 
ing fire,  the  birds  came  back  to  the  haunts  from 
which  thoy  had  been  startled  by  the  unusual 
tumult,  and  the  strange,  solemn  life  of  the  forest 
began  again,  as  if  no  human  sounds  had  ever 
interrupted  its  tranquil  course. 

They  must  have  been  strange  thoughts  which 
occupied  the  old  man  during  that  long,  dreary 
day.  At  his  age,  it  must  have  been  startling 
to  find  himself  in  that  wild  place,  with  the 
great  ocean  between  him  and  his  past  life. 
This,  of  itself,  might  have  been  enough  to  sad- 
den and  bewilder  him,  without  the  weight  of 
responsibility  and  trouble  under  which  he 
labored. 

"  Wal,  old  gentleman,"  said  one  of  the  men, 
breaking  abruptly  upon  his  reverie,  "you're 
pretty  nigh  the  end  of  your  jaunt,  anyhow; 
we'll  see  the  island  by  sundown." 

The  old  man  made  a  little  sign,  which  any 
Catholic  would  have  understood,  but  which  his 
companion  only  set  down  among  the  numerous 
little  oddities  which  ho  had  wondered  at  in  their 
passenger  during  the  past  three  days. 

"  And  we  shall  really  get  there  to-night?"  he 
said. 

"  I  ain't  afeard  to  say  we  shall,  onless  some- 
thing uncommon  should  happen.  The  water  is 
deuced  high,  and  along  here  the  current  runs 
as  if  it  was  pitching  off  a  hill." 

The  old  man  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand, 
and  looked  earnestly  down  the  stream,  as  if 
hoping  already  to  see  the  haven  for  which  he 
had  been  searching  so  long. 

"  I  can't  get  over  thinking  it's  funny  a  man  of 
your  age  should  have  got  the  idee  of  coming 
away  out  into  these  backwoods,"  said  the  man, 
suddenly.  "  I  don't  know  as  ever  I  heerd  yOu 
say  how  long  you'd  been  in  this  country;  I 
s'pose  you  must  have  come  a  good  while  back, 
for  I'd  hardly  know  you  for  an  Irishman  by  your 
talk." 

Boberta  answered  evasively,  as  he  had  con- 


stantly met  all  similar  questions.  He  was  nat- 
urally cautious  and  reticent  to  a  singular  de- 
gree, and  the  fear  of  compromising  in  any  way 
the  interests  of  those  for  whom  he  had  made  that 
journey,  had  rendered  him  so  morbidly  fearful 
of  opening  his  lips,  that  ho  would  not  even 
question  the  men  as  to  what  thoy  might  know 
of  the  family  he  was  seeking. 

The  man  essayed  several  other  shrewd  in- 
quiries, but  with  no  better  success  than  had 
followed  i^revious  questions  without  number, 
and  he  was  obliged,  at  last,  to  leave  this  silent 
passenger  to  his  meditations  without  having 
had  the  gratification  of  obtaining  the  least 
clue  in  regard  to  them  or  the  object  of  his 
journey. 

All  that  day  they  went  drifting  down  the 
current,  in  the  midst  of  varied  and  beautiful 
scenery.  At  times,  for  miles,  the  shores  were 
thickly  lined  with  forest  trees  ;  then  there  would 
come  a  break  of  natural  meadow  land,  or  the 
clearing  of  some  thriving  farmer— perhaps  a 
knot  of  houses,  dignified  by  the  title  of  village; 
then  the  forest  would  suddenly  shut  in  the  view 
again,  to  give  place,  in  turn,  to  bold  ledges  of 
rocks  or  broad  expanses  of  prairie  sweeping  off 
in  the  distance. 

As  they  passed  on  through  the  brightness  of 
the  afternoon,  the  river  widened,  and,  added  to 
the  extent  of  the  natural  channel,  the  effects 
of  the  freshet  were  more  plainly  visible  than 
before. 

They  reached  a  spot  where  a  mountain  stream 
came  leaping  down  the  rocks  and  emptied 
itself  into  the  river ;  it  was  at  all  times  a  fair- 
sized  body  of  water,  but  the  heavy  rains  had 
swollen  it  to  an  alarming  extent,  and  instead  of 
a  sheet  of  transparent  crystal,  it  came  thunder- 
ing over  its  bed  in  huge  volumes  of  foam  and 
turbid  water. 

Only  those  familiar  with  the  rapidity  with 
which  such  mountain  streams  can  transform 
themselves  into  broad  sheets  of  water  under 
the  influence  of  a  continued  storm,  will  under- 
stand the  change  which  had  taken  place  in  the 
mountain  torrent. 

Down  it  rushed  over  the  rocks,  flinging  logs 
and  great  trees  into  the  river  which  it  had  torn 
up  in  its  course  through  the  forest,  and  dashed 
onward  with  a  noise  that  echoed  far  and  wide. 
On  the  opposite  shore  of  the  river,  and  not  more 
than  half  a  mile  below,  another  stream  emptied 
into  the  main  channel,  and  that  too  was  fear- 
fully swollen,  although  it  lacked  the  majesty 
that  the  other  gained  in  its  headlong  plunge 
over  the  ledge. 

After  that  the  river  went  rushing  and  deepen- 
ing onward,  in  many  places  pushing  far  over  its 
banks,  and  completely  surrounding  such  stray 
habitations  as  were  scattered  along. 

The  men  on  the  raft  were  kept  constantly 
occupied  in  pushing  off  the  logs  which  rushed 
down  the  current,  and  the  raft  sped  on  with  a 
swiftness  which  shook  its  timbers  till  they 
strained  fearfully  against  each  other  and  threat- 
ened to  break  from  its  fastenings. 

Some  of  the  men  were  anxious  to  moor  the 
craft  and  wait  until  the  flood  had  subsided  a 
little,  but  they  were  overruled  by  their  more 
ardent  and  inexperienced  companion. 

"At  least  we  will  go  as  far  as  8tar  Island," 
said  the  man  who  had  been  questioning  old 
Boberta;  "we  shall  reach  it  in  two  hours— it 


mOK  RUIN;   OB,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


11 


won't  be  much  after  sundown  then,  and  we 
shall  find  nice  little  coves  to  haul  up  in."  So 
they  rushed  on  through  the  strengthening  cur- 
rent, the  men  growing  quiet  and  grave  under 
the  excitement  ol"  the  scene,  which  was  fast 
deepening  into  terror,  for  the  current  grew 
more  and  more  swift,  the  waters  more  turbulent. 
Suddenly  the  sky  changed— the  sun  was  setting, 
casting  a  flood  of  lurid"  light  on  the  waters,  and 
shining  like  lines  of  blood  through  the  tree 
tops  on  the  shore.  The  heavy  clouds  which  had 
been  gradually  piling  up  in  the  horizon  swept 
closer  together,  forming  a  dense  black  wall,  and 
the  wind  rushed  past  them  Avith  a  noise  like 
distant  thunder. 

"There's  a  smart  chance  of  a  storm  coming, 
Jones,"  said  one  of  the  younger  men. 

"Hang  the  storm!  I  said  we'd  reach  the 
island,  and  we  will.  We  shall  be  in  sight  of  it 
when  we  pass  that  ledge  just  ahead,  so  let  her 
float." 

"Have  you  forgot  the  eddy  there  is  beyond 
that  point— if  we  get  into  it  we  can't  manage 
the  raft  any  more  than  Noah  could  his  ark." 

"I've  passed  it  a  hundred  times.  I  guess 
you  can't  tell  this  child  much  that  he  don't  know 
about  the  river." 

"It  must  be  a  regular  whirlpool  now,  I  can 
tell  you." 

"Maybe  you'd  better  go  ashore  in  a  small 
boat,"  answered  the  other  ;  "  a  body  would  think 
you  was  in  the  Atlantic  ocean." 

The  men  all  laughed  at  that,  perhaps  to  hide 
a  little  uneasiness  in  their  own  hearts. 

On  they  swept — the  ledge  was  passed— they 
could  see  the  beautiful  island  stretched  out  be- 
fore them,  but  between  them  and  its  emerald 
slopes,  now  bathed  in  soft  gray  mist,  seethed 
and  foamed  the  eddy  which  had  become  a  really 
formidable  whirlpool. 

"  There's  the  island,  old  chap! "  shouted 
Jones.     "  Your  troubles  are  about  over." 

Roberts  rose  from  his  seat,  looked  eagerly 
down  the  river  for  a  moment,  then  sank  back, 
and  those  that  were  nearest  saw  his  lips  move 
in  silent  thanksgiving. 

"  And  there's  the  eddy,"  called  one  of  the 
men.  "  We  shall  be  swept  into  it  as  sure  as  a 
gun." 

"I  can  steer  clear,"  returned  Jones.  "I'll 
get  up  close  to  the  bank,  and  hug  it  like  all 
blazes." 

"You  can't,"  cried  the  young  man  who  had 
before  argued  with  him;  "you'll  run  into  the 
sunken  rocks  if  you  try." 

Jones  cursed  him  for  a  coward,  and  exerted 
all  his  strength  upon  the  long  tiller  to  turn  the 
raft  in  the  direction  he  desired.  The  men 
were  all  working  in  silence,  but  the  suspense 
was  of  short  duration— a  dull,  heavy  blow 
struck  the  bottom  of  the  raft — the  unwieldy 
mass  of  timber  swung  slowly  round — they  were 
aground. 

"Push  her  off!"  shouted  Jones,  excitedly; 
"we  can  do  it!— quick  about  it,  or  we  shall  go 
to  pieces !  A  long  pull,  a  strong  pull,  a  pull 
altogether." 

The  men  worked  like  tigers  ;  some  of  them  in 
their  excitement  sprang  off  the  raft  upon  the 
rocks,  others  pushing  desperately  with  the  iron 
mounted  poles,  all  the  while  the  raft  creaking 
and  laboring  as  if  it  knew  its  own  peril  and  was 
rying  to  escape  from  it,  the  roar  of  the  wind 


every  instant  growing  louder,  the  clouds  gather- 
ing heavier,  while  sharp  flashes  of  lightnitlg  shot 
through  them,  and  the  first  boom  of  thunder 
showed  that  the  tempest  was  at  band. 

A  sudden  wave  aided  the  men  in  their  efforts  ; 
the  raft  swung  round. 

"We're  offl"  shouted  Jones;  "look  out 
there ! " 

The  men  upon  the  rocks  sprang  on  to  the 
raft,  and  with  a  mighty  effort  she  plunged  off 
into  the  foaming  torrent. 

"The  eddy,  Jones,  the  eddy!"  called  out  a 
dozen  voices ;  but  it  was  too  late— they  were 
already  in  the  current. 

Before  any  one  of  the  group  could  move  or 
think  they  were  whirling  round  and  round  in  the 
seething  waters. 

The  lashings  of  the  raft  began  to  strain  and 
leak ;  the  timbers  trembled  like  living  creatures 
struck  with  terror. 

"We  are  lost!"  some  one  called  out,  "The 
raft  will  go  to  flinders !" 

Old  Roberts  heard  the  cry ;  he  started  for- 
ward, stretching  out  his  arms  as  if  to  clutch  a 
hold  upon  the  island  that  lay  so  near. 

"No,  no,"  he  shouted,  "no  1  I  am  so  near  the 
island !  I  must  reach  the  island  1  I  will  reach 
that  island !" 

His  hat  was  off,  his  white  hair  streamed  out  in 
the  wind,  his  attitude  betrayed  the  most  agoniz- 
ing suspense  ;  but  even  in  the  moment  of  peril 
the  men  saw  that  it  was  not  fear  which  had 
aroused  him  so. 

"  I  have  it  here,"  he  cried,  striking  his  hand 
against  his  breast ;  "I  must  give  it  up— I  can't 
die  now  1  Put  me  on  shore,  I  say— drown  me 
then,  but  hurl  my  body  on  shore." 

"We  shan't  die!"  called  Jones.  "I  guess 
our  lives  are  safe  enough—but  the  raft  is  gone 
to  thunder." 

It  was  true  the  parting  timbers  flew  round  and 
round  till  the  heads  of  these  stout  men  reeled, 
and  they  crouched  down  upon  the  timbers, 
clutching  the  logs  for  support,  as  each  sweep 
dashed  them  nearer  the  island. 

The  rain  was  falling  in  torrents,  but  no  one 
heeded  that;  the  gloom  was  almost  impene- 
trable, save  when  the  flashes  of  lightning  lit  up 
the  boiling  vortex  in  which  they  whirled,  and 
cast  lurid  gleams  across  the  island  and  the  tow- 
ering cliff  upon  the  opposite  shore,  bathing  them 
with  blue  light. 

"If  we  are  washed  against  Rock  Ruin  we  are 
gone !"  some  one  shouted. 

The  men  started  to  their  feet ;  it  was  the  first 
time  that  any  serious  danger  to  their  lives  had 
struck  the  hardy  company  accustomed  to  the 
rough  navigation  of  the  river  ;  they  could  not 
realize  the  danger  till  it  swept  fiercely  down 
upon  them. 

There  was  no  outcry  ;  they  possessed  all  the 
Indian  fortitude  which  characterizes  men  who 
have  been  bred  in  the  wilderness.  The  com- 
ing fate  was  watched  and  waited  for  in  si- 
lence. 

"Master!  master!"  shrieked  old  Roberts, 
throwing  out  his  arms  toward  the  island  ;  but 
the  roar  of  the  tempest  and  the  booming  thun- 
der only  answered  him. 

A  flash  of  lightning  broke  through  the  fog  and 
revealed  men  running  to  and  fro  upon  the  island. 
Their  danger  had  been  perceived,  but  the  look- 


12 


nOCK  RUIN;   OB,  THE  BAUGHTEit  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


era  on  could  only  stand  and  watch  the  progress 
of  their  destruction. 

"  Master !"  Roberts  called  out  again.  "  Help  ! 
help,  so  near !  I  must  save  it  I  I  can't  die  with 
this  in  my  bosom  1" 

A  few  more  seconds  of  mad  tumult,  then  the 
raft,  by  some  sudden  impetus  of  the  waters, 
was  dashed  toward  the  island.  They  were 
saved  from  the  death  which  awaited  them  if 
they  had  been  cast  toward  the  butting  cliffs  of 
Rock  Ruin. 

A  sudden  plunge,  a  quick  recoil,  the  raft  struck 
against  a  rocky  mass  at  the  extremity  of  the 
island.  One  heavy  blow  and  the  great  timbers 
parted,  casting  the  portion  upon  wnich  the  crew 
•were  grouped  upon  the  shore,  but  a  flash  of 
lightning  snowed  a  mass  of  disjointed  fragments 
drifting  down  the  stream.  The  old  man  was  no 
longer  visible. 

The  men  upon  the  island,  who  had  been 
watching,  rushed  to  the  water's  edge,  eager  to 
give  assistance. 

A  sudden  sweep  of  the  waves  cast  a  human 
body  upon  the  shore.  It  came  in  with  a  dull, 
heavy  weight,  and  was  caught  in  a  clump  of 
thorn  bushes.  A  flash  of  light  showed  the  body 
of  an  old  man,  with  his  gray  hairs  entangled 
among  the  thorns. 

"  There  he  is  !"  cried  a  young  man  who  had 
been  foremost  in  the  island  group.  "No  lives 
lost,  thank  God !" 

"He  is-  dead!"  some  one  answered,  bending 
over  him. 

One  of  the  raftsmen  approached. 

"It's  the  old  Irishman  we  brought  with  us," 
he  said,  in  a  broken  voice.     "  Poor  fellow  1" 

"Take  him  up  to  the  house,"  cried  the  young 
man.     "  I  think  he  is  only  stunned." 

The  men  raised  the  helpless  body  and  carried 
it  up  the  path,  through  the  wood,  and  into 
the  stone  mansion  which  towered  up  near  the 
extremity  of  the  island,  where  the  raft  had  been 
shattered. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

iHILE  the  raft  had  been  sweeping 
through  the  storm  toward  the  isl- 
and, a  boat,  several  miles  below, 
was  struggling  to  force  its  way  up 
the  stream,  undeterred  either  by 
difficulty  or  danger. 
It  was  a  flat,  unwieldy  affair, 
manned  by  four  men,  who  pulled  on  the  rude 
oars  with  all  the  strength  oi  desperation. 

In  the  stem  of  the  boat  sat  a  man  covered  up 
in  a  great  cloak,  and  shielding  himself  as  much 
as  possible  from  the  fury  of  the  storm. 

"  We  can't  reach  the  tavern,"  the  man  said  to 
the  person  who  was  steering  the  boat ;  "  we  shall 
have  to  land  here." 

"  How  far  are  we  from  the  place  ?"  asked  the 
other,  flinging  back  his  cloak  and  sitting  up- 
right. 

"  Only  about  two  miles.    Can  you  walk  it  ?" 
"  Of  course,  if  you  can,"  he  replied.    "  Put 
ashore— we  are  drenched  already,  and  the  worst 
is  over— put  ashore." 

The  helmsman  obeyed,  and  in  a  few  moments 
they  were  landed  in  safety. 

"This  is  the  hardest  puU  I've  seen  in  one 
while,"  said  the  helmsman,  as  they  stood  for  a 
moment  to  gather  breath  after  their  exertions. 


"  How  far  do  you  say  we  are  from  the  tavern, 
Hyatt?"  asked  the  man  to  whom  he  bad  before 
spoken. 

"  Two  miles  only ;  but  it's  a  deuce  of  a  walk." 

"  That's  nothing.  I've  got  traps  here  I  don't 
want  to  leave.  Give  a  hand,  men  ;  and  when  we 
reach  the  inn  we'll  have  supper.  That  will 
make  you  forget  the  trouble." 

"  Old  Mother  Ames  is  the  one  to  get  it  up," 
said  one  of  the  men.     "  Here  goes,  fellows." 

Thev  gathered  up  the  knapsacks,  and  Hyatt 
and  the  gentleman  preceded  them  along  the 
rough  path  which  conducted  to  the  shelter  of 
which  the^  -were  in  search. 

"  All  this  must  be  a  sort  of  revelation  to  vou, 
Mr.  Gorman,"  said  Hyatt,  as  they  stumbled 
along,  side  by  side. 

"It  certainly  is  not  the  sort  of  thing  one 
meets  with  every  day,"  replied  the  other ;  but, 
at  all  events,  it  gives  one  a  sensation." 

"  I  should  think  so,  if  you  choose  to  call  this 
infernal  rain  by  that  name." 

His  companion  laughed  out  with  a  strange 
recklessness,  as  ho  answered  : 

"  You  and  I  have  called  things  by  all  sorts  of 
strange  names  since  wo  met." 

"It's  not  my  fault,"  grumbled  Hyatt.  "If 
a  man  won't  speak  out  plain  it's  not  my  fault, 
is  it?" 

"  Wait  till  we  are  safe  at  Mother— what  is  her 
name  ?" 

"Ames,"  grumbled  Hyatt,  upon  whom  the 
drenching  rain  did  not  seem  to  have  a  pleasant 
effect. 

"Ames  bo  it,"  returned  the  other.    "What  a 

Elace  to  find  misery  in  !  I  say,  Hyatt,  you 
avon't  really  told  me  yet  what  brings  you 
here." 

"  Nor  you  me,"  retorted  the  other. 

"  Oh,  I  am  in  search  of  adventures,"  replied 
the  foreigner,  with  a  laugh.  "  Travelers  always 
are,  you  know." 

"  And  I  like  to  buy  lumbei-  cheap,"  said  Hy- 
att, with  an  affectation  of  his  tone.  "  Traders 
do,  you  know." 

"  Bah  !  "  exclaimed  the  stranger,  angrily. 

"  So  I  say,"  answered  Hyatt.  "We'll  put  the 
adventures  and  the  purchaser  together  in 
that." 

The  other  laughed  again,  and  they  walked  on 
in  silence  through  the  dark  wood. 

"I  can  see  a  light,  Hyatt,"  exclaimed  one  of 
the  men  who  had  approached  near  to  them. 

"  That's  Rock  Ruin  tavern,  then,"  he  an- 
swered.    "  I  know  I  ain't  sorrv,  for  one." 

"  I  guess  we'll  all  join  you  there,"  replied  the 
man,  in  an  ill-natured  tone.  "  It's  a  great  go, 
when  a  man  has  to  take  a  tramp  like  this  with- 
out a  drop  to  wet  his  throat  with." 

"You  shouldn't  have  got  drunk  yesterday, 
Winter,"  replied  Hyatt ;  "  there'd  be  half  a 
gallon  left,  at  least,  if  you  had  not.  Boys  can't 
have  cake  and  keep  their  coffers,  too." 

There  was  a  laugh  from  the  men  behind,  a 
few  coarse  jokes,  then  they  trudged  on  in  a  sort 
of  sullen  silence,  which  would  have  been  quite 
excusable  in  better  tempered  men  after  expo- 
sure to  a  storm  like  that. 

It  might  have  been  an  hour  later  when  they 
emerged  into  a  clearing  by  the  river  side,  and 
saw  a  light  from  the  tavern  gleaming  closer  to 
them. 

"  Here  we  are  I"  exclaimed  Hyatt,  recovering 


noCK  RUIN;  OR,  THS  BAXIQHTEB  OF  THE  l8LA^t>. 


19 


his  spirits.  "  Now,  Mr.  Gorman,  we  are  sure  of 
supper  and  a  dry  bed,  at  least." 

"  I  think  I  shall  take  to  both  kindly,"  he  an- 
swered. Lead  the  way,  and  exercise  your  fas- 
cination upon  Mother  Ames  in  the  best  style 
possible." 

They  passed  up  the  rude  stoop,  and  Hyatt 
threw  open  the  door  into  a  small  room,  where 
an  old  woman  sat  knitting  by  a  fire,  which  the 
inclemency  of  the  night  made  exceedingly  agree- 
able. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Ames,"  he  said,  "  here  we  are 
again." 

"  Lord  bless  us !"  exclaimed  the  old  woman, 
starting  to  her  feet  and  lifting  her  spectacles, 
"  if  it  ain't  Mr.  Hyatt !  Wal,  I  declare,  who'd  a 
thought  of  seeing  you  sich  a  night  I" 

"  All  the  more  reason  for  being  glad  to  see 
us,"  he  replied.  "  We  are  as  wet  as  a  washing- 
day  and  hungry  as  alligators." 

"  I  can  mend  all  that,  I  guess,"  she  answered 
with  a  cheery  laugh.  "  Come  up  to  the  fire,  all 
of  you.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Winter,  and  all  the 
rest  of  you.  There's  somebody  I  don't  know," 
she  continued,  looking  at  Gorman  with  the  curi- 
osity of  one  who  saw  few  strange  faces. 

"  He's  a  friend  of  mine,"  replied  Hyatt,  as  he 
took  off  his  coat  and  hung  it  on  a  pole  stretched 
over  the  fireplace.  "  He's  traveling  to  see 
things." 

"  Rock  Ruin  ain't  much  of  a  place  to  come  to 
for  that,"  replied  the  old  woman.  "  I  ain't  seed 
vou  in  these  parts  for  a  good  while,  Mr.  Hyatt ; 
1  was  a  saying  t'other  day  I  didn't  know  what 
had  become  of  you." 

"  Oh,  I  always  turn  uj)  in  time,"  he  answered, 
composedly  divesting  himself  of  such  portions 
of  bis  attire  as  required  drying. 

"  Like  a  bad  penny  I"  laughed  Gorman,  throw- 
ing off  his  cloak  and  taking  a  chair  close  to  the 
fire. 

The  old  woman  gave  him  a  quick  look.  He 
was  plainly,  almost  coarsely  dressed,  like  his 
companions,  but  her  faculties  detected  the  dif- 
ference between  them  at  once. 

"  You  don't  speak  like  one  of  our  country 
folks,"  said  she,  abruptly. 

"  I  told  you  Mr.  Gorman  was  a  traveler,"  re- 
plied Hyatt.  "  But,  I  say,  old  lady,  if  you've  got 
anything  to  drink  bring  it  out,  and  then  give  us 
the  best  supper  you  can." 

■'  I've  got  some  fair  rum  and  some  prime  Hol- 
lands," she  answered.  "  I  can  bet  on  that,  for 
Mr.  Conner  got  it  for  me.  As  for  supper — wal, 
•I  guess  we'll  do— there's  bacon  and  eggs,  and 
chickens,  and  corn  bread " 

"A  feast  for  a  king!"  interrupted  Gorman. 
"  Do  hurry  it  up,  my  good  woman." 

"  Give  us  the  liquor  first,"  said  one  of  the 
men.  "  Sha'n't  be  content  till  I'm  as  wet  inside 
as  I  am  out." 

The  old  woman  bustled  away  to  a  corner  cup- 
board, and  produ«ed  a  couple  of  square  bottles 
and  a  number  of  greenish  glasses,  which  she 
placed  on  a  table  near  the  fire. 

•'  There's  water  in  that  jug,"  she  said.  "  Now 
I'll  see  about  supper." 

"Hang  the  water!"  growled  Winter;  "I've 
had  enough  of  it  to  last  me  for  a  lifetime." 

"I  guess  you  never  did  take  to  it  very 
nat'ral,"  retorted  the  old  woman.  "Try  and 
make  yourselves  comfortable ;  'twon't  take  me 
long  to  get  up  supper." 


She  hurriad  out  of  the  room,  and  the  men  ap- 
plied themselves  to  the  spirits  with  great  ener- 
gy, although  they  seemed  to  have  no  effect  upon 
their  seasoned  frames,  while  Gorman,  after  sip- 
ping a  few  moutbfuls,  returned  to  his  task  of 
drying  his  clothes,  and  left  the  others  in  undis- 
puted possession  of  the  bottles. 

It  certainly  was  not  more  than  half  an  hour 
before  the  old  woman  threw  open  the  door  and 
invited  them  into  the  kitchen,  where  a  comfort- 
able table  was  spread,  about  which  they  gath- 
ered with  the  utmost  alacrity. 

bhe  had  found  time,  beside  broiling  the  chick- 
ens and  preparing  the  ham  and  eggs,  to  concoct 
a  great  plate  of  hot  bread,  together  with  such 
other  appetizing  things  as  her  skill  could  in- 
vent. 

"This  is  something  like,"  said  Hyatt,  throw- 
ing himself  back  in  his  chair  as  his  meal  was 
finished.  "I  say,  mother,  what  can  you  do  for 
us  in  the  way  of  beds  ?  " 

"  I  guess  we  can  manage,"  she  repled,  taking 
a  pinch  of  snuff,  and  shaking  her  head  in  the 
operation.  "There  ain't  a  night,  spring  and 
fall,  that  I  don't  have  lumbermen  here.  'Tain't 
likely  I've  kept  this  tavern  nigh  onto  ten  years 
without  knowing  how  to  provide  them." 

"That's  so,  Mrs.  Ames,"  returned  one  of  the 
men.  "It's  the  only  place  within  fifty  miles 
worth  stopping  at." 

The  old  woman  finished  her  pinch  of  snuff 
and  nodded  her  head  in  a  mollified  way. 
.  "  I'll  give  Mr.  Hyatt  and  the  stranger  the  gar- 
ret over  this,"  she  said,  "  and  I'll  put  the  rest 
of  you  over  the  other.  I  guess  you'll  all  do — 
the  beds  is  good,  anyhow." 

"  No  fear  of  that,"  returned  Hyatt ;  "  we  shall 
get  on  splendidly.  I  say,  boys,  shall  we  have  a 
glass  of  punch  and  a  smoke,  and  then  turn  in  ? 
I,  for  one,  am  deuced  tired.  How  do  you  find 
yourself  Mr.  Gorman  ?" 

"I  fancy  that  I  shall  be  all  the  better  for  a 
night's  rest,"  he  answered,  rising  from  the  table 
as  ho  spoke. 

While  Hyatt  and  he  sat  by  the  fire  drinking 
their  punch,  the  other  four  men  occupied  them- 
selves with  a  game  of  cards,  and  soon  no  sor.ud 
was  heard  in  the  room  save  an  occasional  oath 
from  one  of  the  gamblers,  or  a  long  yawn  or 
broken  whistle  from  Hyatt,  his  companion  sit- 
ting on  the  other  side  "of  the  fire,  lost  in  deep 
and  apparently  not  very  pleasant  meditations. 

"  Suppose  you  and  I  stow  ourselves  away,  Mr. 
Gorman,"  said  Hyatt,  at  last,  "  and  leave* these 
fellows  to  their  game  ?" 

The  other  complied  at  once,  and,  taking  up  », 
light,  Hyatt  led  the  way  through  the  bar-room  to 
a  small  apartment,  which  was  evidently  the  old 
lady's  beat  bedroom.  It  contained  two  comfort- 
able-looking beds,  before  each  of  which  a  strip 
of  rag  carpet  had  been  spread ;  and  although 
everything  was  of  the  plainest  description,  the 
room  looked  so  tidy  ana  neat  that,  had  Gorman 
been  less  fatigued  than  he  was,  even  to  him  it 
must  have  had  an  appearance  of  comfort. 
,  "Well,"  Hyatt  said,  suddenly,  "our  journey 
is  at  an  end,  Mr.  Gorman." 

"So  much  the  better,"  he  answered — "so 
much  the  better." 

Hyatt  looked  at  him  thoiightfully. 

"  You  and  I  ought  to  have  a  clearer  under- 
stftndiQg,  Mr.  Gorman,"  he  said.    "  Of  course  i 


14 


MOCK  nzrm;  on,  the  i)AnonTER  of  the  island. 


liaven't  said  a  word  before  the  men,  but  I  think 
we  ought  to  have  a  talk  together." 

"What  do  Winter  and  the  rest  think?"  Gor- 
man asked. 

"  I  have  left  them  in  doubt  whether  you  want- 
ed to  buy  lumber  or  had  just  come  here  for  the 
fun  of  the  expedition." 

"  That  was  right  Hyatt,  (juite  right." 

Hyatt  puffed  away  at  his  cigar  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, then  continued  : 

"  I  know  it  must  have  been  some  powerful  in- 
ducement that  brought  you  here.  Itou  said  you 
might  want  my  help,    lou've  paid  me  well.'*^ 

"  And  will  continue  to  do  so,"  interrupted 
Hyatt. 

"  Nor  do  I  mean  that  you  shall.  In  a  few 
days,  after  I  fully  understand  things  myself  and 
have  looked  about  me,  I  will  explain  to  you  ex- 
actly what  I  want  to  have  done." 

"  In  the  meantime " 

"You  are  to  do  what  we  agreed  upon — ap- 
pear to  be  occupied  in  buying  up  lumber  and 
getting  a  raft  ready  to  go  down  the  river." 

"  Yea,  they've  seen  me  in  such  business  before 
about  here,  so  that  won't  astonish  anybody." 

"  It  might,"  retorted  Gorman,  "  if  they  knew 
how  much  lumber  had  gone  down  that  never 
was  paid  for." 

"  The  man  must  live,"  replied  Hyatt  care- 
lessly. "  I  guess,  anyhow,  my  errand  would 
bear'daylight  as  well  as  yours." 

Gorman  flushed  a  little  at  his  words,  but  made 
no  reply. 

"  So  this  Mr.  Conner  is  away  from  home  ?"  he 
said. 

"  Yes,  as  I  told  you,  otf  in  the  Eastern  States, 
and  may  not  be  back  for  a  month,  and  maybe 
more,  Mr.  Cforman,"  he  added,  suddenly.  "  I 
believe  you  know  more  about  him  than  any  man 
in  this  country  does." 

"  What  sort  of  young  man  is  his  son  ?"  asked 
Gorman,  without  appearing  to  have  heard  his 
remark. 

"A  splendid  young  fellow  and  no  mistake," 
returned  Hyatt. 

"  He's  not  the  sort  of  fellow  to  pass  his  life  in 
this  out-of-the-way  place,  I  am  sure." 

"  You  say  he  has  been  carefully  educated  ?" 

"Oh,  yes;  he  was  at  college  down  East,  and 
has  traveled  a  good  deal ;  and  the  last  time  I 
was  here  he  was  mad  to  go  to  Europe,  but  his 
father  would  not  hear  of  it." 

Gorman  smiled,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  The  first  thing  to  find  out,"  said  he,  "  is  if 
that  old  Irishman  has  reached  here  yet." 

"  We  can  do  that  in  the  morning.  If  he 
bringa  news  to  Conner  that  you  wanted  to  inter- 
cept, I  wonder  you  did  not  overtake  him  on  his 
journey." 

"  Haven't  I  missed  him  everywhere?"  replied 
the  other,  angrily.  "  No,  he  must  come  now — 
there  is  no  help  for  it.  We  can  settle  him,  I 
think." 

"  What  1"  exclaimed  the  other,  in  a  tone  of  sur- 
prise.    " Do  you  mean — -' 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  the  gesture 
with  which  he  accompanied  his  words  was  dread- 
fully significant  of  their  meaning. 

"No— no,"  reiterated Gorman,with  something 
like  a  shudder,  "  nothing  of  that  sort." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  replied  Hyatt,  care- 
lessly. "That  sort  of  thing  is  always  danger- 
ous.'' 


Gorman  turned  from  him  with  something  like 
disgust.  The  sight  of  that  bad  man  was,  for 
the  moment,  like  having  his  own  evil  nature  re- 
vealed openly  to  him,  and  he  shrank  from  the 
exposure. 

*'  Well,"  said  Hyatt,  beginning  to  undress,  "I 
am  your  man  with  this  business  you  have  on 
hand,  whatever  it  may  be,  if  you  stick  to  the  price 
you  have  named." 

"I  shall  do  that,  no  fear;  Inever  go  back  from 
a  bargain.  Of  course  your  companions  are  to  re- 
main in  ignorance  until  the  time  comes  when  we 
need  their  services." 

"  That's  understood.  Anyhow,  I  don't  know 
much  myself  to  tell  them  as  yet." 

"True  enough  for  that,"  replied  the  other, 
turning  from  the  subject  with  a  sort  of  angry  im- 
patience, as  if  he  did  not  like  to  face  it  himself 
at  that  moment. 

"  Then  I  think  the  best  thing  a  man  can  dc  is 
to  go  to  sleep  as   fast  as  possible,"  said  Hyatt, 

Shilosophically,  "  and  that's  just  what  I  mean  to 
0." 

•'  Very  good.  I  should  think  those  fellows 
would  all  be  tired  enough  to  want  rest." 

Gorman  answered  absently  ;  his  thoughts  were 
evidently  upon  money.  Long  after  Hyatt  was 
sleeping  as  quietly  as  an  innocent  man  could 
have  desired  to  do,  he  turned  restlessly  upon 
his  pillow,  muttering  to  himself  and  resolving 
the  schemes  to  gain  which  he  was  periling 
everything. 

CHAPTER  V. 

Old  Roberts  was  lying  on  a  bed  when  he 
awoke  to  consciousness,  wliile  an  elderly  woman 
bent  over  him  with  restoratives. 

He  started  up  on  his  pillow  and  struck  wildly 
at  her. 

"Where  am  I?"  he  exclaimed— "  oh  I  where 
ami?" 

"  Safe,"  she  replied ;  "  quite  safe." 

In  spite  of  his  weakness,  he  struggled  partial- 
ly up,  and  began  fumbling  at  his  vest  with  a 
look  of  fear.  Evidently  what  ho  sought  for  was 
safe,  for  he  fell  back  w'ith  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"I  have  it,  master  !"  he  muttered,  "I  have 
it !    Thanks  to  the  blessed  YiTgin,  it  is  safe  !" 

The  woman  left  the  bed  and  went  to  the  door 
of  the  next  chamber  and  looked  in.  A  young 
man  was  standing  at  a  table  bending  over  a 
medicine  ohest. 

"  Mr.  Gerald,"  she  aaid  in  a  whisper,  "please 
to  come  in.  I  thinlt  he's  wandering  in  his 
mind." 

The  young  man  turned  at  her  words  and  en- 
tered the  chamber.  Roberts  started  up  again 
at  the  echo  of  his  step,  looking  eagerly  out  like 
one  who  hears  a  familiar  sound.  When  the 
light  fell  upon  the  youn^  man's  face  he  gave  a 
low  cry  and  held  out  his  hands. 

"  It's  the  young  master,"  he  whispered— "  it's 
the  young  master."  ,^  ,    ,    ^ 

The  gentleman  did  not  catch  the  words,  but 
the  wild  look  and  gesture  made  him  believe  that 
the  shock  had  troubled  the  old  man's  brain. 

"  I  want  to  get  off  the  rest  of  your  clothes, 
and  give  yon  srmething  that  will  make  you 
sleep,"  b->   n..!  kindly.  "  Will  you  let  me  now  ?" 

"  It's  \  K  *TOe  voice,"  muttered  the  old  man. 
"  They  all  lia^  it.  Yea,  master ;  do  with  the  old 
I  man  as  you  please." 


BOCK  RUIN;    OB,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


15 


*<  You  will  bo  moro  comfortable,  once  in  bed," 
continued  he,  aoothinglj;,  and  attempting  to  lift 
the  gray  head  from  its  pillow.  .     ,  ..       , 

As  he  put  out  his  hand,  Roberts  seized  it  and 
pressed  it  to  his  lips  with  a  wild  burst  of  tears. 

"  Found— found ! "  he  exclaimed.  ''Master, 
do  you  hear  ?    They're  found-they're  found ! 

"I  think,  Mrs.  Jordan,"  said  the  gentleman, 
turning  towards  the  woman,  "you  had  better 
call  one  of  the  men  up."  ^    „  ^    ^      .,      ,,    , 

"Gall  nobody!"  cried  Roberts,  " nobody  1 
Sond  the  master  here.  You  are  too  young.  It 
is  your  father  I  want  to  see.  Why  don  t  he 
come  ?  Tell  him  it's  me  has  come.  Sure,  he  11 
remember  the  old  man."  ,     -,  xu 

"Did  you  wish  to  see  my  father?  asked  the 
gentleman. 

"I  don't  know.  This  maybe  a  delusion!" 
cried  the  old  man.  "Tell  me  your  name— for 
the  love  of  Heaven,  tell  me  your  name  I" 

"Gerald  Conner." 

"  Yes— yes ;  I  knew  God  would  help  me.  Why 
don't  you  send  the  old  master  here  ?"  he  con- 
tinued, frantically.  ' '  It's  burning  into  my  heart. 
I  want  to  give  it  to  him." 

"  My  father  is  from  home,"  replied  Conner, 
hoping  to  soothe  the  poor  stranger,  and  quiet 
his  raving,  for  he  certainly  believed  that  his 
words  were  only  the  purposeless  mutteringa  of 
fever. 

"He's  not  dead!"  cried  Roberts.  "They 
told  me  he  was  alive.  Oh,  he  isn't  dead  1  Don't 
say  that  I " 

"  He  is  alive  and  well,  but  he  is  absent." 

"  Is  it  for  long— for  long?" 

"  I  think  not,  but  I  do  not  know  how  soon  he 
will  return." 

"Send  for  him— send  for  him!"  continued 
Roberts,  with  wild  eagerness.  "  I'm  old— I'm 
old !  Every  day  drifts  me  nearer  and  nearer  to 
the  old  master." 

"  Have  you  come  on  business  to  my  father  ?" 
asked  Gerald. 

Roberts  looked  round,  saw  the  woman  stand- 
ing near,  and  again  clasping  his  hands  closely 
over  his  chest,  tried  hard  to  recover  his  senses, 
which  had  become  bewildered  by  the  shock  of 
his  fall  and  the  sight  of  that  young  face. 

"  ru  not  talk  to-night, "  he  groaned ;  "  I'm  not 
just  clear  in  my  head." 

"  I  want  to  put  some  dry  underclothing  on 
you,"  continued  Gerald.  "See,  it  is  all  nicely 
warmed.  Now,  Mrs.  Jordan,  if  you  will  go  down 
and  bring  me  up  some  hot  brandy,  I  will  have 
him  ready  to  take  it  when  you  return." 

The  woman  left  the  room,  and  Gerald  assist- 
ed the  old  man  in  removing  his  clothing,  too 
full  of  sympathy  to  leave  him  to  the  care  of 
domestics. 

"  Don't  touch  that !"  cried  Roberts,  angrily,  as 
he  laid  his  hand  upon  his  vest.  "I  beg  your 
pardon,"  he  added,  "  but  you  mustn't  touch  it." 

The  young  man  humored  this  caprice,  and 
when  he  had  established  his  patient  in  bed,  he 
said,  abruptly: 

"Now  you  can  sleep,  I  think." 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  Roberts,  hoarsely.  "  I 
want  to  be  alone  a  little.    Go  out,  sir,  please." 

Conner  complied  with  his  request,  and  when  he 
heard  the  door  close,  Roberts  looked  about  the 
room  to  be  certain  that  he  was  alone,  then  exert- 
ed his  last  remnant  of  strength  to  raise  up  in  the 


bed  and  seize  the  vest  which  lay  on  the  counter- 
pane. 

He  took  a  penknife  from  his  pocket  and  ripped 
open  the  lining,  then  drew  from  it  a  thin  packet, 
enveloped  in  oiled  silk  so  carefully  that  it  had 
sustained  no  damage  from  the  water. 

"  Here  it  is,"  he  whisoerod.  "  It's  safe,  master 
—it's  safe  1" 

His  excitement  was  dying  away,  and  he  had 
barely  strength  to  pass  the  cord  which  was  fast- 
ened to  it  about  his  neck,  and  button  his  flannel 
wrapper  carefully  over  it. 

"I  can  keep  it,"  he  continued.  "If  I  was 
dead  I'd  know  if  anybody  tried  to  touch  it.  It's 
safe,  master.    Yes — yes  ;  it's  safe." 

It  seemed  as  if  that  one  powerful  desire  to 
guard  his  treasure  had  kept  off  the  fever  which 
burned  in  his  veins,  but  now  he  could  only  sink 
back  on  his  pillow,  with  just  strength  to  answer 
when  Conner  again  entered  the  room  and  ad- 
dressed him. 

"  I  have  brought  you  some  hot  drink,"  he  said. 
"  You  will  sleep,  I  think,  after  taking  it." 

The  old  man  drained  the  cup  eagerly.  Then 
Conner  laid  his  head  back  on  the  pillow  and  sat 
by  him  until  his  incoherent  speech  died  away  in 
slumber. 

The  young  man  remained  by  the  bedside  in  \ 
deep  thought.  He  saw  that  the  stranger's 
words  had  not  all  been  caused  by  delirium,  and 
the  veil  of  half  mystery  which  had  always  envel- 
oped his  life  rendered  him  quick  to  seize  upon 
any  new  circumstance  which  seemed  connected 
with  it. 

"  He  must  have  come  to  see  my  father,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "and  he  has  some  secret.  I 
must  watch  by  him  myself,  for  he  may  say  things 
that  ought  not  to  be  heard  by  strangers.^'  • 

He  saw  the  wet  vest  lying  on  the  floor, with  the 
lining  freshly  cut.  He  took  it  up,  looked  at  it 
for  an  instant,  and  then  quietly  carried  it  to  a 
wardrobe,  placed  it  therein,  and  turned  the  key 
in  the  lock. 

"If  there  is  any  mystery,"  he  thought,  "I 
have  no  right  to  pry  into  it ;  but,  at  all  events,  I 
must  keep  any  one  else  from  even  suspecting 
it." 

While  he  sat  watching  the  old  man  in  his 
feverish  sleep,  Mrs.  Jordan  opened  the  door 
softly  and  looked  it.  He  went  out  to  meet  her, 
saying : 

"He  is  asleep.  I  am  going  to  stay  in  the 
room  next  this,  and  if  he  wants  anything  I  will 
get  it." 

"Hadn't  one  of  the  men  better?'*  she  sug- 
gested. 

"No— no,"  he  replied.  "They  never  would 
wake,  if  he  called  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  I  will 
stay  myself." 

It  was  no  such  unusual  thing  for  Gerald  Con- 
ner to  give  up  his  comfort,  in  order  to  be  of  ser- 
vice to  another,  as  to  afford  the  good  woman  any 
astonishment.  She  said  nothing  more,  but  pro- 
ceeded to  satisfy  herself  that  the  room  was  in 
order,  to  satisfy  her  fastidious  taste,  before  bid- 
ding him  a  final  good-night. 

Gerald  went  into  his  own  chamber,  leaving  the 
doors  between  the  rooms  open,  so  that  he  might 
hear  the  stranger  if  he  required  aaaistauce. 
Several  times  during  the  night  he  was  called  in 
by  the  old  man's  moaning  in  his  sleep  or  waking 
with  a  feverish  thirst  and  vague  words  of  alarm, 
as  if  pursued  by  some  unseen  danger. 


16 


ROCK  RUIN;   OR,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


Conner's  voice  would  quiet  him  instantly. 
There  was  an  undertone  in  it  so  like  a  voice 
that  had  been  the  sweetest  music  of  old  Roberts' 
life  that  had  a  soothing  effect  upon  him  in  his 
troubled  slumbers. 

Toward  morning  he  fell  into  a  profound  sleep, 
and  then,  for  the  hrsttime,  Conner  retired  to  his 
bed  to  get  a  little  rest  before  the  early  daybreak 
should  tind  him  at  his  vigil. 

CHAPTER   VI. 

As  the  party  who  had  arrived  at  the  tavern 
the  preceding  night  were  seated  at  breakfast, 
the  raftsmen,  who  had  been  kept  on  the  island 
until  the  morning,  came  over  to  establish  their 
headquarters  at  the  inn  during  the  time  it 
would  take  to  collect  and  build  over  their  broken 
raft. 

"Hello!"  cried  Hyatt,  as  they  came  up  the 
bank,  "  is  that  you,  Jones  ?" 

"  Yes,  it's  me,  Mr.  Hyatt,  and  I  wish  it  wasn't." 

' '  Got  so  far  down  the  river  with  your  raft,  eh  ?" 

"  If  you  took,  the  trouble  to  go  over  to  the 
island  you'd  find  what's  left  of  her,  except  such 
timber  as  lies  high  and  dry  on  Rock  Ruin." 

"  Met  with  a  shipwreck,  have  you  ?  I  hope  you 
won't  lose  much  timber." 

"  Not  much,  I  think ;  but  there's  our  work  to 
do  over  again,  not  to  mention  the  loss  of  time — 
we  are  two  days  behindhand  now." 

"  That  is  rough,  upon  my  word." 

"  I  guess  you  d  call  it  by  another  name  if  it 
had  been  your  luck,"  grumbled  Jones. 

"  But  you  all  came  ofif  safe— nobody  hurt  ?" 

"  None  of  my  men,  but  an  old  man  we  had  on 
board  came  near  getting  drowned." 

"  The  deuce  he  did  !    Who  was  he  ?" 

"  Now  you  ask  me  too  much,"  replied  Jones. 
We  took  him  on  board  up  at  Marvin's ;  he 
wanted  to  come  down  to  the  island  to  find  Mr. 
Conner,  I  suppose." 

Gorman  had  left  the  breakfast  table,  and  stood 
by  the  window  lighting  a  cigar.  At  these  words 
he  dropped  the  match  he  had  just  ignited,  and 
gave  one  quick  start,  but  restraining  himself 
with  a  great  effort,  stood  listening  with  an  air  of 
apparent  unconcern  to  the  conversation. 

"  He's  a  queer  old  duck,"  said  one  of  the  other 
men;  "beyond  asldng  a  few  questions  about 
the  Conners,  he  hardly  opened  his  lips  all  the 
way." 

"What  do  you  suppose  he's  after?"  asked 
Hyatt,  carelessly,  more  by  way  of  keeping  up 
a  conversation  than  from  any  interest  in  the 
matter. 

"  God  knows,"  replied  Jones ;  "he  seemed  to 
me  about  half  cracked,  muttering  and  praying 
to  himself.  I  believe  he  brought  us  our  bad 
luck." 

"He  was  about  as  fit  for  such  a  ioumey  as  a 
baby,"  continued  another.  "  I  tell  you  he  was 
the  funniest  looking  old  chap,  with  his  knee 
breeches,  silk  stockings,  and  buckles  on  his 
shoes.  I  never  could  look  at  him  without  a 
grin." 

"  He's  from  the  old  country,  I  conclude,"  said 
Gorman,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"  Oh,  he  8  an  Irishman,  or  English,  or  some 
sort  of  a  foreigner,"  replied  Jones;  "  btit  he 
didn't  seem  quite  like  the  common  lot  of  'em 
emigrants,  either." 

A^fter  a  few  more  careless  questions  Gormau 


down  to  the  river  bank,  and  once  secure  from 
observation  his  forced  calmness  gave  way. 

"So  he  is  here,"  he  muttered,  clenching  his 
hand ;  "  he  is  in  my  reach  after  all.  Conner  is 
gone— Roberts  will  never  give  that  will  to  the 
young  man,  or  even  mention  it— I  know  his 
caution  well  enough  for  that.  I  must  get  it  from 
him— but  how  ?— but  how  ?  Confound  the  luck 
that  drifted  him  that  side  !" 

The  man  who  called  himself  Gorman  walked 
up  and  down  the  bank  in  deep  reliection,  his 
darkened  face  betraying  the  evil  thoughts  whir' 
filled  his  mind. 

"  If  I  can  get  it  I  need  trust  no  one,  not  even 
this  soundrel  Hyatt,"  he  said,  at  length,  not 
in  words,  but  to  his  own  plotting  heart. 

After  a  time  his  reverie  was  broken  by  the 
sound  of  laughter,  and  looking  toward  the  house 
he  saw  that  several  of  the  men  had  come  out 
upon  the  steps.  Hyatt  was  among  them,  and 
wnen  he  caught  sight  of  Gorman  he  strolled 
leisurely  down  and  joined  him. 

"  I  think  I  see  my  wajr  clearly  now,  Hyatt," 
Gorman  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  but  I  want  your 
help." 

"  I  promised  you  that,"  he  replied. 

"  And  you  will  be  well  paid  ;  if  I  succeed  you 
shall  not  say  I  don't  keep  my  part  of  an  agree- 
ment." 

"All  right;  but  what  is  it  you  want  me  to 
do?" 

"  You  know  this  young  Conner,  and  are  in  the 
habit  of  going  over  to  the  island  when  you  are 
here  ?" 

"  Certainly ;  I  am  going  over  there  to-day." 

"  Good !  that  is  what  I  want  exactly.  You  must 
find  out  for  sure  the  room  where  this  old  man 
sleeps— how  to  get  at  it,  and  everything  of  the 
kind!." 

"  That's  easy  enough  ;  but  what  the  deuce  do 
you  want  of  this  old  man  ?" 

"Don't  you  understand  that  he  is  the  very 
person  I  have  been  searching  for  ?" 

Hyatt  gave  a  prolonged  whistle,  and  then 
laughed  outright. 

"  Upon  my  word,  you  go  a  long  way  to  meet 
one  another,"  he  exclaimed ;  "but  you  ve  got  the 
old  coon  up  a  tree  now,  anyway." 

"  Never  mind  that ;  I  have  found  him  at  last ! 
Now  I  want  a  conversation  with  him  at  once, 
and  nobody  must  know  of  it." 

"  Can't  you  bring  him  over  here  ?" 

"  You  heard  that  man  say  he  was  in  bed,  and 
could  not  get  up.  I  tell  you  I  must  see  him 
alone ;  no  one  must  know  that  I  have  been  near 
him." 

"  You  only  want  to  talk  to  him  ?" 

"  That  is  all— there  is  no  risk  to  you.  Just  go 
and  find  out  all  you  can,  and  leave  the  rest  to 
me." 

"  Blessed  if  it  isn't  Greek  and  Latin,  to  say  no- 
thing of  the  Hebrew,  to  me  !"  muttered  Hyatt. 

"No  matter,  so  as  you  are  well  paid.  The 
whole  thing  is  easier  than  I  expec4ied." 

"  Very  well,  I'll  do  my  share.  But  I  say,  Gor- 
man   " 

"  Well?'  he  returned,  impatiently. 
"  There'll  be  nothing,  then,  to  make  a  disturb- 
ance, no  reason  for  a  fellow's  making  himself 
scarce  ?" 

"  Not  the  (slightest.  If  things  turn  out  as  I 
wish,  I  shall  go  away  at  onoe  \  o&o  ^t  the  Wen 

caa  take  lae  duwa  tl*e  riYor?*' 


ROCK  RUIN;  OR,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


17 


"  You  see  we  came  here  ourselves  about  a  little 
affair— but  no  matter,"  he  continued,  breaking 
off  abruptly.  "  I  won't  trust  him  any  more  than 
he  trusts  me,"  he  muttered  angrily.  "  Well,  I'll 
go  over  to  the  island  now,  and  bring  you  word 
how  the  land  lies." 

"  Do  BO,  and  be  very  exact,  Hyatt." 

"  Never  fear.  I  am  not  one  that  bungles  over 
any  sort  of  a  commission.  You  can't  teach  me 
anything." 

He  turned  and  walked  back  to  the  house.  Gor- 
man seated  himself  upon  a  log  and  sat  waiting. 
He  saw  him  come  out  of  the  house,  go  down 
to  the  place  where  the  widow  kept  her  boat 
moored,  and  watched  him  as  he  pushed  off  and 
rowed  up  the  stream  toward  the  island. 

Still  Gorman  sat  there.  He  had  no  love  for 
the  beautiful  scene  spread  out  before  his  eyes ; 
the  whirl  of  bad  thoughts  in  his  soul  kept  him 
blind  to  the  picturesque  loveliness  about  nim. 

He  was  so  deeply  occupied  that  he  hardly  had 
time  to  think  of  the  strangeness  of  his  position. 
Hereafter,  that  place,  and  all  connected  with  it, 
would  seem  to  him  like  a  dream— something  to 
be  looked  back  upon  as  one  might  regard  the 
vision  of  a  fever. 

It  is  not  probable  that  he  reflected  upon  the 
wickedness  of  the  project  which  had  brought 
him  upon  that  long  and  uncertain  journey.  The 
aim  for  which  he  had  toiled,  for  which  he  was 
willing  to  peril  both  body  and  soul,  seemed  now 
within  his  reach  ;  and  from  his  earliest  youth  his 
life  had  been  too  constant  a  course  of  vice  and 
treachery  for  any  surplus  of  conscience  to  trou- 
ble him  at  that  time.  Nay,  so  peculiar  was  the 
man's  nature,  in  many  respects  so  visionary  and 
impractical,  that  after  a  season  his  thoughts 
wandered  from  the  terribly  engrossing  theme 
upon  which  they  had  dwelt',  and  in  his  mind  he 
was  planning  an  alteration  he  would  make  in 
a  certain  suite  of  rooms  in  the  old  castle.  Even 
with  crime,  perhaps  murder,  so  near  his  soul, 
he  could  turn  and  dwell  complacently  upon  a 
trivial  thing  like  that. 

The  men  had  all  disappeared  from  sight,  there 
was  nothing  to  disturb  nis  reflections,  and  so  he 
sat  there  in  the  brightness  of  the  early  morning, 
revolving  his  plans,  and  feeling  a  fierce  exulta- 
tion that  the  end  was  so  near  at  hand. 

The  sound  o^  oars  in  the  water  roused  him. 
He  looked  up  and  saw  Hyatt  just  landing  the 
boat.  He  did  not  rise  and  go  down  to  meet  nim  ; 
he  sat  there  quietly,  with  hardly  a  look  of  eager- 
ness in  his  face,  save  the  restless  glitter  in  his 
deep  set  eyes. 

"Here  you  are  yet,"  was  Hyatt's  salutation, 
as  he  sat  down  on  the  log  by  him,  and  began  to 
fan  himself  with  his  hat.  "  It's  a  deuced  hard 
pull,  this  warm  morning,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  What  have  you  heard?"  asked  Gorman. 

"  The  old  man  is  there,  sure  enough— in  bed." 

"  Did  you  see  him  ?"  questioned  Gorman,  more 
eagerly ;  "  were  you  in  his  room  ?" 

"Yes,  I  was.  He  lay  in  bed,  asleep.  Mrs. 
Jordan — that's  the  housekeeper — gave  me  a  peep 
at  him.  They  have  sent  to  the  town  for  a  doc- 
tor." 

"Is  he  sick— in  danger?" 

"  Young  Mr.  Conner  thinks  not,  only  exhaust- 
ed by  his  journey  and  the  shock  of  his  bath." 

"  What  did  young  Conner  say  about  him  ?" 

"  No  much  \  I  doubt  if  ho  knows  anvthiug.  He 
fes-icl  that  ho  watitf^-^  '■■■  --■--  ^--  *""hor/' 


"  Did  he  know  where  he  came  from  ?" 

"  He  said  not ;  I  asked  him  that." 

"  So  !"  muttered  Gorman.  "  That  is  all  well. 
How  is  his  room  situated?"  he  muttered, 
aloud. 

"It's  on  the  second  floor— a  back  room. 
There's  a  winding  staircase  leads  to  it  from  the 
porch  ;  it's  one  of  young  Conner's  apartments, 
and  that  was  a  fancy  of  his." 

"  It  is  easy  of  access,  then?" 

"  Of  course  it  is— go  up  the  stairs;  open  the 
glass  door,  and  there  you  are.  Doors  are  never 
locked  in  this  region." 

Gorman  sat  silent  and  thoughtful. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  up  to  the  house  as  if  you 
went  out  of  curiosity  ?  We'll  get  to  talking  to  Mr. 
Conner,  and  ask  him  to  let  us  up." 

"  I  tell  you  nobody  must  know  of  my  entering 
that  room,"  replied  Gorman,  in  an  irritated 
tone. 

"  Very  well ;  then  you  can  manage  as  I  said. 
The  old  man  is  alone  most  of  the  time,  but  I 
should  think  yoji  run  much  risk  of  danger— he'll 
be  startled  at  seeing  you." 

"  Leave  me  to  manage  that,"  was  the  answer. 
"  Did  you  speak  of  me  to  the  young  man  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and  I  said  you  were  a  lawyer  from  one 
of  the  Eastern  cities  ;  that  you  werehere  to  hunt 
up  some  old  claims  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

' '  All  right.    Nothing  more  ?" 

"  He  said  I  must  bring  you  over  to  the  house. 
Oh,  he's  a  very  civil  young  chap  ;  mighty  high 
in  his  notions,  I  guess,  but  very  free  and  easy 
after  ail.  The  old  gentleman  is  as  proud  as  Lu- 
cifer ;  you'd  think  he  was  king  of  England  in 
disguise.  I  tell  you  what,  whoever  he  was  in  his 
own  country,  he's  got  what  you  foreigners  call 
good  blood  in  his  veins,  that's  certain." 

Gorman  smiled  bitterly,  but  made  no  reply. 
He  had  caught  up  a  long  pine  branch,  and  was 
threshing  the  grass  with  it  in  an  absent  man- 
ner. 

"  I've  got  my  eye  on  that  lumber,"  said  Hyatt, 
after  a  pause.  "  Jones  is  so  discouraged  1  be- 
lieve I  could  buy  that  raft  for  half  what  it's 
worth.  He's  sick  with  the  ague,  and  wants  to 
get  home  to  his  wife." 

"  What  are  you  saying?"  asked  Gorman,  turn- 
ing toward  him ;  "  who  is  sick?" 

"  Jones  ;  I  am  talking  about  the  raft. .  I  believe 
a  fellow  could  make  a  spec  in  buying  it." 

"  Wait  till  to-morrow,^'  said  Gorman.  "  Talk 
to  me  about  it  then  ;  if  you  want  the  raft,  we  can 
manage  it.  To  be  frank  with  you,  though,  I  did 
not  suppose  you  ever  bought  lumber." 

"  Oh,  sometimes,"  he  replied,  carelessly, 
"  honesty  is  a  good  policy  occasionally." 

Gorman  looked  contemptuously  at  him,  but 
Hyatt  was  whistling  in  a  low  tone,  and  staring 
up  the  river,  so  the  scorn  expressed  in  his  com- 
panion's face,  which  was  full  of  contempt  for  his 
petty  villanies,  was  quite  lost  upon  him. 

"  When  do  you  mean  to  go  to  the  house  ?"  he 
asked,  at  length. 

"  The  sooner  the  better.  Can  it  be  managed 
to-night,  do  you  think  ?" 

"  Better  wait  till  to-morrow  evening  after  the 
doctor  has  been,  and  everything  gets  quiet  again. 
You  see  I  can  row  up  tlieni  in  the  evening,  and 
see  how  the  coast  lioH,  and  then  take  yon  over 
after  tho  peoplo  ^t  to  bed  ;  wo  c^n  |fOt  off  with- 
out anybo<^'§  bemg  tho  wlsor*" 


18 


Kot'K  nm,';  ()i,\  nil'.  n.\  r/z/irri:  or  mi:  i:-i,akd. 


"  Very  well ;  to-morrow  night  bo  it.  I  shall 
go  to  the  inn  now.    I  have  letters  to  write," 

"  And  I  shall  hunt  up  the  boys ;  I  guess  they're 
on  a  hunting  expedition.  Won't  you  go  along  V" 

"  Not  to-day,  not  to-day,"  replied  Gorman,  im- 
patiently ;  and  without  more  words  he  walked 
rapidly  toward  the  tavern. 

Hyatt  looked  keenly  after  him,  and  shook  his 
head. 

"I  don't  know  who  you  are,  but  you're  a 
mighty  bad  man,  I'll  lay  any  wager.  I  wouldn't 
give  much  for  that  old  man's  life  if  he  stands  in 
that  fellow's  way.  However,  it's  none  of  my 
business ;  each  man  for  himself ;  the  boys  and  I 
are  getting  well  paid ;  and  into  the  bargain,  I 
don't  believe  we'll  leave  this  spot  again  with- 
out a  sight  at  the  silver  tea-pots  and  tureens 
this  very  old  Conner  has  stored  away  in  his 
vault." 

And  with  these  words  he'  commenced  his 
whistling  again,  and  strolled  down  to  the  store 
to  join  his  companions. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

Therk  do  not  exist  spots  of  ground  upon  the 
earth  that  so  nearly  approach  what  we  think  of 
paradise,  that  sorrow  or  sin  seem  impossible  to 
them.  Star  Island  was  one  of  these  places.  Even 
in  its  wildest  state  there  was  such  wonderful 
beauty  in  its  greenness,  and  its  graceful  undu- 
lations, that  the  Indians  would  paddle  their 
canoes  dreamily  around  it  with  a  vague  idea  that 
it  was  sacred  land,  on  which  their  prophets 
alone  must  dare  to  hunt.  The  appearance  of  a 
white  doe  with  its  fawn  cropping  the  rich  grass- 
es on  its  banks,  might  perhaps  have  aided  this 
idea  at  first.  Certain  it  is,  no  game  was  ever 
killed  by  the  Indians  on  Star  Island,  and  the 
light  waters  of  the  river  in  which  it  lay  were 
never  disturbed  by  spear  or  line,  though  the 
finest  fish  in  the  world  inhabited  its  waters. 

But  we  are  not  describing  the  island  in  its 
wilderness  state ;  civilization  has  crept  along 
the  banks  of  the  river  in  which  it  lies,  girdled 
with  silver  waters.  Forest  trees  are  grouped 
over  it  in  abundance,  but  art  has  been  at  work 
with  nature  so  long  that  it  is  a  glimpse  of  para- 
dise you  see  from  the  distant  bank.  Groups 
of  weeping  and  golden  willows  mark  the  in- 
dentures of  the  shore,  clumps  of  magnificent 
elms  rise  from  the  level  ground  of  the  meadows. 
Wild  flowers,  crab-apples  and  dogwood  trees, 
shut  out  the  green  glades  in  one  direction,  bow- 
ers of  wild  grape  vines  baffle  the  eye  at  another 
point. 

The  island  is  long  and  broken,  picturesque  in 
places,  and  ending  northward  in  a  rocky  bluff, 
covered  with  a  wild  forest  darkened  by  pines, 
hemlocks,  grand  old  oaks  and  gum  trees.  The 
forest  is  full  of  deer.  The  white  doe,  which  In- 
dian superstition  held  sacred,  has  left  many  a 
graceful  descendant  in  the  woods,  and  great 
dun-colored  bucks,  with  bounding  antlers  and 
almost  human  eyes,  roam  at  large  in  the  hemlock 
shades. 

On  the  southern  slope  of  Star  Island,  stood  a 
large  stone  mansion,  not  exactly  castellated  nor 
altogether  Elizabethan  in  its  style,  but  with  an 
old  country  aspect  that  startled  the  imagination. 
Heavy  stone  balconies— broad  steps  and  ballus- 
trade  of  hewn  stone,  areal  windows  arranged 
to  command  the  finest  views,  were  strange  ob- 


jects in  that  remote  place,  but  not  more  strange 
than  the  wonderful  cultivation  of  the  grounds 
and  beautiful  artistic  eifects  produced  at  every 
point  where  art  could  possibly  aid  nature.  But 
the  wonder  occasioned  by  a  building  of  this 
magnificence  in  the  far  West,  was  increased  by 
the  marks  of  age,  which  had  softened  everything 
about  the  mansion.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  a 
huge  creeping  willow,  which  swept  one  wing  of 
the  building,  had  attained  its  full  growth  since 
the  foundations  of  the  house  were  laid.  A 
tulip  tree  that  had  been  a  sapling  then,  now 
toward  sixty  feet  from  the  ground,  mingling  its 
dark  green  foliage  with  the  plumy  branches  of 
the  willow— clumps  of  horse-chestnuts  and  elms 
broke  up  the  noble  slope  of  the  lawn,  which 
covered  the  whole  south  end  of  the  island  with 
a  soft  emerald  carpet,  sometimes  sloping  off  into 
the  very  waves  of  the  river,  again  broken  on  the 
banks  by  clumps  of  wild  fruit  trees  over  which 
the  frost  grapes  were  allowed  to  clamber  at 
will. 

Back  toward  the  centre  of  the  island,  lying  be- 
tween that  and  the  wilderness,  lay  a  noble  apple 
orchard;  towering  pear  and  spreading  peach 
trees,  always  richly  beautiful,  whether  in  blos- 
som or  fruit. 

Looking  up  or  down  the  river,  the  views  were 
of  almost  magical  beauty,  yet  varying  so  much 
that  it  struck  the  beholder  with  awe  to  mark  such 
diverse  scenery  in  so  close  a  proximity. 

Below  the  island  the  river  widened,  and  a  suc- 
cession of  green  plats  spread  out  on  either  side, 
with  here  and  there  a  tree-crowned  knoll,  above 
which  rose  a  line  of  misty  blue  hills  in  the  dis- 
tance, sufficiently  near  to  wear  all  sorts  of  chang- 
ing aspects  during  the  long  summer  days. 

The  waters  ran  sparkling  and  laughing  along, 
as  if  delighted  at  their  escape  from  the  shadow 
of  the  gloomy  cliffs  higher  up,  and  glad  to  find 
themselves  once  more  in  the  sunlight. 

But,  above  the  island,  the  lofty  ledges  of  rock, 
of  whiSh  I  have  before  spoken,  swept  down  to  the 
very  edge  of  the  waters  like  great  battlements. 
Upon  the  left-hand  shore,  and  nearly  opposite 
the  island,  rose  a  clifi"  of  such  height  and  singu- 
lar shape  that  it  was  the  marvel  of  the  whole 
region.  It  shot  up  in  the  air  several  hundred 
feet  in  height,  a  square,  perpendicular  mass  of 
rock,  looking  like  some  medi»v^  tower,  such  as 
one  sees  along  the  Ehine,  the  relic  of  those 
feudal  strongholds  where  the  bold  barons  of 
history  and  romance  held  their  brigandish 
sway. 

Green  vines  crept  in  rank  luxurianoe  almost  to 
the  top,  hanging  down  in  rich  festoons,  and 
seemingly  seeking  to  cover  the  bold  outline  of 
the  cliff. 

Mountain  eagles  built  their  eyries  upon  the 
summit,  and  very  often  wolves  and  bears  made 
their  lairs  in  the  narrow  passages  at  the  foot, 
which  had  been  worn  during  long  conflicts  with 
the  elements. 

The  raftsmen  had  named  this  spot  Rook  Ruin, 
for  it  was  not  far  below  the  great  whirlpool,  and 
in  seeking  to  avoid  that  they  often  shattered  their 
rafts  against  it,  and  it  had  become  well  known 
by  that  deserved  name. 

The  scant  population  in  the  vicinity,  and  the 
hardy  lumbermen  who  worked  in  the  forest  back, 
avoided  the  place  as  much  as  possible.  It  had 
gained  an  evil  name,  although  perhaps  no  one 
could  have  exactly  told  why.    There  was  a  sort 


BOOK  RUIN';  OB,  TAe  DAUaHTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


19 


of  ill-luck  attached  to  it ;  several  raftsmen  had 
lost  their  lives  there ;  a  hunter,  astray  in  the  for- 
est, had  forced  his  way  to  it,  and  was  found  dead 
at  its  foot  weeks  after.  Altogether,  it  was  a  place 
of  ill- omen  ;  and  there  it  towered  up  solitary  and 
terrible  as  if  it  had  a  sort  of  stubborn  pride  in 
its  inaccessibility  and  the  dangers  which  sur- 
rounded it. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  caverns  of  any  extent 
in  it.  One  or  two  hunters  and  young  Conner 
had  several  times  attempted  to  explore  it,  but 
found  only  small  cavities,  large  enough  for  the 
dens  of  wild  beasts,  so  that  the  general  opinion 
was  that  it  stood  there  an  almost  solid  mass  of 
rock,  a  sort  of  natural  foi-tress,  which,  if  it  had 
stood  in  other  lands,  might  have  been  the  origin 
of  legends  and  romances  innumerable.  But  the 
hard-working  pioneers  in  that  region  had  found 
no  time  to  indulge  in  such  fancies ;  there  was 
enough  of  actual  peril  connected  with  it,  so  they 
had  no  need  to  look  about  for  fancied  dangers 
that  might  have  invested  it  with  a  poetical  in- 
terest. 

Twenty-five  years  before  had  the  owner  of  that 
beautiful  island  left  his  native  land  an  exile,  to 
seek,  under  an  assumed  name,  a  home  in  this 
land  where  so  many  of  his  persecuted  country- 
men have  a  place  of  refuge. 

His  means,  of  course,  were  ample,  but  dis- 
gusted with  everything  connected  with  the 
world,  ho  sought  the  most  retired  spot  that 
was  to  be  found  in  which  to  establish  his  new 
home. 

He  was  a  noble,  ambitious  man,  and  though  as 
years  went  on  he  grew  hard  and  stern,  mingled 
with  a  strange  melancholy,  as  he  reflected  upon 
his  thwarted  life,  he  retained,  under  that  re- 
served demeanor,  a  wealth  of  tenderness,  which 
was  felt  by  all  about  him,  although  even  to  his 
own  son  he  was  undemonstrative  almost  to  cold- 
ness. 

Five  years  after  his  settlement  in  this  country, 
his  wife  died,  leaving  him  one  child,  and  since 
that  time  he  had  lived  on  in  that  retired  spot, 
working  out  of  his  life  the  utmost  usefulness  to 
his  fellow-men  that  circumstances  permitted. 

The  great  energy  and  force  of  his  character 
needed  some  outlet,  so  he  had  turned  his  at- 
tention to  business,  and  had  toiled  as  earnestly 
as  if  it  had  been  necessary  for  him  to  amass  a 
fortune. 

In  that  place  the  youth  Gerald  had  been  born 
and  reared,  save  during  the  years  when  for  pur- 
poses of  education  he  had  been  sent  for  several 
years  to  an  Eastern  city. 

Of  his  father's  true  position  he  knew  literally 
nothing,  except  that  he  was  a  political  exile.  Of 
the  destiny  that  might  one  day  await  him  across 
the  sea,  he  never  so  much  as  dreamed,  and  his 
father  had  acted  wisely  in  keeping  such  knowl- 
edge from  him,  as  it  could  only  have  rendered 
him  discontented  with  life,  as  he  was  forced  then 
to  accept  it. 

He  was  a  noble,  generous  young  man,  endowed 
with  fine,  natural  talents,  which  had  been  highly 
cultivated.  His  love  for  his  father  was  almost 
idolatry  ;  it  had,  perhaps,  been  deepened  by  that 
intuitive  knowledge  which  comes  to  a  child  that 
his  parent  suffered,  and  even  as  a  little,  lisping 
boy  he  would  strive-  with  all  the  art  that  his  baby 
mind  could  invent  to  cheer  him  in  those  hours 
when  despondency  settled  most  heavily  down 
upon  the  mind  of  the  exile. 


Gerald  now  connected  the  visit  of  the  old 
stranger  with  the  troubles  which  had  forced  hia 
father  to  quit  Ireland,  and  he  was  elated  with 
the  hope  that  this  man  might  be  the  bearer  of 
joyful  tidings.  Still,  with  his  scrupulous  ideas 
of  delicacy  and  honor,  nothing  could  have  in- 
duced him  to  question  or  seek  to  penetrate  the 
mystery  ;  his  only  duty  wag  to  prevent  any  one 
around" from  supposing  there  could  be  a  secret 
connected  with  the  stranger's  journey,  and  await 
his  father's  arrival  for  such  further  solution  of 
the  enigma  as  he  might  think  proper  to  give. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

In  and  out  through  the  clustering  trees  on 
the  upper  9nd  of  Star  Island  flashed  a  tiny 
stream,  now  stirring  the  violet-tinged  slopes  of 
a  meadow,  now  sleeping  in  the  shadows,  and 
again  leaping  into  the  sunshine,  laughing  and 
eddying  on  its  way  till  the  very  pebbles  in  its 
bed  seemed  to  join  in  the  liquid  riot  of  sunbeams 
and  water  dancing  merrily  over  them.  After 
making  its  way  in  this  coquettish  fashion  through 
the  island,  the  stream  lost  itself  in  the  river. 
In  the  dense  shadows  of  the  grove,  the  rivulet, 
like  a  playful  child  subdued  by  solitude  and 
darkness,  crept  softly  under  the  trees  with  a 
timid,  whispering  murmur,  and  seemed  abso- 
lutely checking  the  sparkle  of  its  waves  as  they 
rippled  under  and  through  the  gnarled  roots  of 
the  oaks  that  stretched  themselves  into  the  bed 
of  the  stream,  and  lay  coiled  under  the  water 
like  a  nest  of  huge  serpents  petrified  or  asleep. 

But  there  was  one  spot,  a  few  fathoms  deep  in 
the  wood,  where  the  rivulet  flashed  out  in  its 
sparkling  wilfulness  again,  and  bent  like  a  silver 
bow  around  an  old  log  cabin,  so  completely 
overrun  with  honeysuckles,  wild  roses,  and 
creeping  plants,  that  but  for  a  rude  angle  peep- 
ing out  here  and  there  the  very  timbers  might 
have  seemed  built  of  flowering  shrubs.  The 
trees  had  been  thinned  aroung  this  dwelling, 
that  necessary  sunshine  might  nourish  a  flower 
garden  which  lay  glowing  around  it,  and  one 
stately  tree  falling  over  the  roof  gave  a  pictur- 
esque shelter  to  the  humble  spot.  From  the 
window  of  this  cabin  might  be  seen  the  wind- 
ings of  the  river,  and  the  glades  of  the  forest, 
where  troops  of  deer  lay  slumbering  or  stalked 
calmly  over  the  rich  sward. 

One  morning  this  cabin  was  occupied  only  by 
a  young  girl,  busy  as  a  butterfly  in  her  house- 
hold affairs.  The  day  was  yet  early,  and  it  was 
a  pleasant  thing  to  see  the  form  of  that  lovely 
girl  passing  to  and  fro  by  the  open  window, 
while  gracefully  performing*  the  household  task. 

Lucy  Jones  filled  a  humble  station  in  the 
world.  Her  father  was  only  a  sort  of  head  far- 
mer, and  she  his  only  child  and  housekeeper. 
With  all  her  beauty— and  Lucy  was  very  beauti- 
ful— she  had  no  aspirations  beyond  her  humble 
lot.  No  aspirations,  did  I  say  ?  Ah,  there  I  was 
wrong  1  Lucy  was  a  woman,  a  sweet-tempered, 
warm-hearted  young  creature,  just  in  the  flush 
of  life  and  hope,  and  at  times  her  pure  heart 
would  beat  and  her  cheeks  would  burn  with 
thoughts  of  another  cabin  nearer  the  great  house 
where  the  old  gardener  had  left  a  son  to  mourn 
his  loss  and  inherit  his  place— for  valley,  forest, 
and  river',  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  was  the 
property  of  one  man.  Now  and  then,  as  Lucy 
proceeded  with  her  work,  she  would  pause  by  a 


20 


ROCK  RUIN;   OR,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  ISLAND, 


window  looking  upon  the  stream,  put  back  the 
dew-laden  vines  with  her  hand,  and  look  toward 
the  river  as  if  she  expected  some  one  to  appear 
upon  the  bank.  But  all  was  solitude.  The 
bright  sunshine  playing  upon  the  sward,  the 
damp  leaves  and  the  sparkling  waters,  alone 
met  her  gaze.  Then  she  would  draw  a  tremulous 
breath,  which  was  not  quite  a  sigh,  and  turn 
away,  to  come  back  again  at  the  slightest  noise, 
and  peer  forth  as  before. 

At  last  her  watchfulness  was  rewarded  by  the 
sight  of  a  manly  youth  coming  down  the  shore, 
with  a  fishing  rod  in  one  hand  and  a  basket  on 
his  arm  covered  with  flowers,  such  as  Lucy,  with 
all  her  skill,  could  not  have  persuaded  to  bloom 
in  the  sunniest  nook  of  her  little  garden. 

Ah,  Lucy  Jones,  Lucy  Jones  !  it  was  a  tell-tale 
blush  that  rose  to  that  cheek  as  those  soft,  brown 
eyes  fell  on  the  youth  and  his  fragrant  burden. 
One  could  almost  count  the  pulsations  of  the 
little  heart  fluttering  beneath  that  pretty,  white, 
short  gown,  by  the  color  that  came  and  went  so 
like  the  tints  olfsunset  on  that  round  and  dimpled 
cheek.  The  smile,  too— how  it  brightened  and 
played  around  that  little  roguish  mouth  !  The 
sunshine  twinkling  among  the  wet  rose-buds  out- 
side the  window  was  not  half  so  beautiful. 

And  now  the  voung  girl  draws  back  from  the 
window,  thougn  it  were  difficult  to  detect  her 
among  the  thicklv  clustering  leaves.  She  blushes 
and  smiles,  and  her  heart  gives  a  pleasant 
bound,  for  upon  the  greensward  she  hears  a 
quick  footstep.  Across  one  of  her  flower  beds 
she  sees  a  shadow  fall.  That  pleasant  sound 
and  sight  makes  her  blood  glow  and  nerves 
thrill. 

The  footsteps  draw  nearer,  and  sound  with  a 
sort  of  ringing  music  on  the  threshold  stone. 
There  is  a  rustling  of  vines  as  the  fishing-rod  is 
leaned  against  them.  How  the  color  gushes 
afresh  to  Lucy's  cheek  ;  and  with  her  little  em- 
browned hands  she  seizes  the  churn-handle,  and 
falls  diligently  to  work,  as  if  every  thought  were 
intent  on  dashing  the  milk  that  her  busy  hands 
were  agitating. 

Lucy  heard  the  latch  lifted,  and  knew  by  the 
fresh  gust  of  perfumed  air  sweeping  in  that  the 
door  was  opened  ;  but  she  did  not  turn  her  head, 
or  seem  to  heed  it  in  the  least,  till  a  pair  of 
brown  hands  were  placed  on  each  of  her  shoul- 
ders, and  a  voice  whispered  something  in  her 
ear  which  we  will  not  repeat,  though  her  bosom 
it  made  swell  again  and  brought  a  swarm  of  dim- 
ples to  that  rosy  little  mouth. 

Those  dimples,  those  ripe  lips  I  Strawberries 
bathed  in  sunshine  were  not  half  so  tempting ! 
They  were  enough  to  provoke  an  anchorite,  and 
John  Manson  was  no  hermit. 

"  Oh,  Lucy,  forgive  me !  I  have  not  seen 
you  in  five  days  ;  remember  that,"  said  John 
Manson,  his  fine  face  all  aglow  and  assuming 
a  half  deprecating,  half  triumphant,  look.  "  See 
what  I  have  bi ought  you." 

John  Mansson  dropped  upon  one  knee,  set 
his  basket  on  the  floor,  and  parting  the  flowers, 
revealed  a  mass  of  luscious  cherries  glowing 
underneath. 

"  Oh,  John  1"  said  Lucy,  lifting  her  finger. 

"  No,  no  ;  they  are  from  my  own  tree  at  the 
end  of  the  cabin— that  which  shelters  the  little 
bedroom  window,"  said  John,  earnestly,  "  but 
never  bore  fruit  till  this  year.  Before  another 
comes  around,  you  shall  gather  the  cherries 


yourself  from  the  window.  I  was  thinking  so 
this  morning  as  I  stripped  the  boughs  for  you. 
Ob,  Lucy,  how  happy  we  shall  be !" 

The  smile  grew  softer  upon  the  lips  of  that 
young  girl,  and  her  brown  eyes  were  flooded 
with  love-light  as  they  fell  upon  the  upturned 
face  of  her  lover. 

She  did  not  answer  his  full-hearted  appeal, 
but  bent  down  and  began  to  remove  the  flowers 
from  the  basket  to  an  old-fashioned  china  vase 
which  stood  on  the  window  seat  close  by. 

But  John  saw  that  her  long,  black  eyelashes 
were  moist,  and  that  her  hands  grew  tremulous 
as  they  wandered  amid  the  blossoms,  and  these 
signs  of  feeling  made  her  heart  swell  more  than 
words  could  have  done. 

The  flowers  were  crowded  into  the  capacious 
vase  ;  the  cherries  lay  glowing  upon  the  table, 
in  a  dish  of  cut  crystal,  impaired  by  a  slight 
fracture  in  the  edge',  which  defect  had  sent  the 
vessel  from  the  manor-house  to  the  cabin,  where 
it  became  a  boast  and  an  ornament ;  and  there, 
amid  the  commingled  perfumeof  fruit  and  blos- 
som, the  lovers  sat  down  together. 

"  Now  tell  me,"  said  Manson,  looking  through 
the  window,  and  toying  uneasily  with  a  cluster 
of  cherries  which  he  had  taken  from  the  dish, 
"what  has  happened  during  my  absence?  what 
—what  visitors  have  you  had?" 

"None  that  were  welcome,"  said  Lu^;  and 
her  face  took  a  serious  expression.  "He  was 
here  twice  in  one  day,  but  I  would  hold  no  con- 
versation with  him  ;  indeed,  but  for  my  father's 
command,  I  would  have  left  the  house  the  mo- 
ment he  entered  it." 

Manson  arose  and  again  began  to  pace  the 
floor. 

"  Why  will  your  father  insist  on  making  us 
miserable  ?"  he  said,  with  some  bitterness. 

"  Will  he  forever  remain  blind  to  the  charac- 
ter of  this  bad  man  ?" 

"Has  a  few  hundred  dollars  sealed  his  eyes 
so  thoroughly  that  nothing  will  open  them  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  Lucy,  and  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears  ;  "  but  he  seems  to  have  cast  a 
spell  on  my  poor  father.  It  is  not  his  money,  at 
least  I  thmk  not.  There  is  something  else- 
some  influence  that  I  cannot  fathom  — makes 
my  father  his  friend.  Do  you  know,  John,  I 
sometimes  suspect  him  of  instigating  discontent 
among  work-people  ?" 

"  And  I,  too,"  replied  Manson,  with  energy. 
"  Whoever  heard  people  cavil  about  their  wages 
until  he  came  among  us  ?  Even  your  father, 
Lucy,  has  become  discontented  since  this  man 
got  possession  of  his  ear.  There  will  come  trou- 
ble out  of  this— trouble  to  us  all ;  I  have  fore- 
seen it  a  long  time.  This  morning  I  feel  more 
certain  of  it  than  ever." 

"Let  us  hope  for  the  best,"  replied  Lucy, 
placing  a  hand  upon  her  lover's  arm  as  he  came 
near  her  again.  "  Of  one  thing, you  are  certain  : 
whatever  influence  this  man  may  obtain  over 
my  father,  it  shall  never  reach  me.  With  my 
whole  heart  aTTd  strength  I  love  you,  John  ;  not 
even  death  could  force  me  to  encourage  an- 
other !" 

"God  bless  you  for  saying  that!"  replied 
John  Manson,  with  hearty  warmth,  and  tears 
sparkled  in  his  fine  eyes  as  he  took  Lucy  in  his 
arms  and  held  her  close  to  his  heart.  "  Heaven 
knows  I  have  never  doubted  you,  Lucy ;  yet  it 
is  a  comfort  to  hear  this  promise  from  Ups  that 


ROCK  nvm;  on,  thu  daughter  of  tse  island. 


21 


never  yet  deceived  me.  Let  the  wretch  prowl 
about !  While  we  love  each  other  so  much  what 
harm  can  be  do  ?  Yet  I  sometimes  long  to  pitch 
at  him  for  daring  to  lift  his  eyes  this  way  ;  I  al- 
ways feel  the  blood  tingling  at  my  finger's  end 
whenever  he  crosses  my  path." 

"  Let  him  alone  ;  he  is  quiet  and  subtle  as  a 
rattlesnake,  but  all  the  more  to  be  feared  for 
that.  Let  him  alone,  John  ;  he  will  be  no 
straightforward  enemy  such  as  you  can  fight 
with.  Let  the  man  take  his  course  ;  he  cannot 
shake  our  faith  in  each  other.  He  cannot  rob 
us  of  our  love.  Why,  then,  should  we  care 
about  him  ?" 

'•  I  know— I  know,"  said  Manson,  impetuously  ; 
"  still,  I  cannot  help  it.  I  hate  him,  and  always 
shall,  so  long  as  he  dares  to  look  upon  you  with 
hope.  Oh !  if  your  father  could  but  be  brought 
to  see  him  in  his  true  light  1" 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  allow  Thomas  Jones 
to  think  a  little  for  himself,"  said  a  voice  at  the 
window. 

Lucy  clung  to  Hansen's  arm,  who  walked 
straightway  to  the  casement,  and  dashing  aside 
the  vines,  stood  face  to  face  with  two  men  sta- 
tioned close  to  the  opening,  one  leaning  with 
an  air  of  insulting  languor  against  the  logs,  the 
other,  a  middle-aged  man,  short  and  stout,  hold- 
ing on  to  his  gun  with  both  hands,  which  he  had 
planted  so  hard  in  the  ground  that  the  stock 
was  buried  in  the  flowery  turf,  while  his  chin 
rested  upon  the  muzzle.  The  face  of  this  man 
lowered  with  a  stern  and  angry  cloud ;  his  heavy 
brow  drooped  over  two  coal-black  eyes  full  of 
angry  fire ;  and  the  fingers  with  which  he  clasped 
the  gun  worked  nervously  about  the  muzzle,  as 
if  he  could  hardly  refrain  from  lifting  the  weapon 
to  his  shoulder. 

"  Lucy — gal,  I  say— take  your  hand  from  that 
young  man's  arm." 

The  voice  trembled  with  anger,  and  loosing 
his  grasp  from  the  fowling-piece,  he  lifted  a 
finger  threateningly  toward  the  young  creature, 
who,  in  the  first  impulse  of  surprise  and  terror, 
had  clung  to  her  lover  for  protection  against  the 
frowning  glances  bent  upon  her. 

"  Oh,  father,  don't  be  angry  with  us,"  said  the 
poor  girl,  sinking  beneath  the  gloomy  scowl  that 
grew  darker  and  darker  upon  his  face.  "  John 
only  came  to  bring  us  some  cherries  from  his 
own  garden — see  I  and  the  flowers,  too.  Ho  had 
been  away  nearly  a  week ;  so  it  was  natural  he 
should  think  of  us  the  first  thing." 

"  And  it  was  natural  that  he  should  come  and 
urge  an  old  man's  child  to  rebellion,  was  it?  I 
tell  you,  girl,  this  fellow  must  leave  my  house 
and  never  enter  its  doors  again.  I  have  seen 
enough,  heard  enough ;  you  can't  deceive  me 
now  ;  I  will  be  master  under  my  own  roof.  Let 
it  be  cleared." 

"Your  roof  shall  be  free  of  my  company  at 
once,"  said  John  Manson,  in  a  voice  that  trem- 
bled more  from  wounded  feeling  than  anger  at 
this  rude  treatmei^t  from  his  old  friend.  "It  is 
the  first  time  I  ever  stood  beneath  it  without  a 
welcome — it  will  be  the  last !  As  for  that  man," 
continued  the  outraged  youth,  pointing  sternly 
at  the  younger  person  who  stood  by  the  window, 
with  a  sneer  on  his  lip  and  in  his  eye,  "  as  for 
that  man,  let  him  beware  how  he  crosses  my 
path  !  He  has  come  between  me  and  my  father's 
old  friend  — he  has  dared  insult  the  girl  that 
shall  yet  bo  my  wife  with  his  unwelcome  love- 


talk  1  He  is,  I  solemnly  believe,  engaged  in 
practices  that  will  bring  him  yet  within  the 
clutches  of  the  law  1  I  warn  you  against  him, 
Thomas  Jones  I  Look  on  his  face— see  how  pale 
my  words  have  made  him  !  His  mouth,  his  eyes, 
he  cannot  control  them  always!  Once  more, 
Thomas  Jones,  I  warn  you  against  that  man  I" 

The  energy  with  which  Manson  spoke,  the 
lightning  flash  of  his  eyes,  had  its  effect.  The 
old  farmer  looked  first  at  the  excited  speaker 
then  at  the  man  by  his  side,  and  a  shade  of 
surprise,  not  unmingled  with  suspicion,  swept 
across  his  features. 

Manson  took  Lucy's  hand  within  his,  and 
wringing  it  convulsively,  turned  to  leave  the 
cottage. 

"  See— young  man  I"  exclaimed  Hyatt,  for  that 
was  the  name  which  the  old  man's  companion 
bore,  "  do  not  attempt  to  sneak  off"!  Before  this 
good  man  and  his  daughter  I  will  force  you  to 
take  back  your  insolent  words  1" 

Hyatt  spoke  evidently  with  desperate  effort. 
His  black  eyes  gleamed  unsteadily,  and  he 
turned  them  from  side  to  side,  while  his  lips 
trembled  and  grew  white,  either  from  suppressed 
rage  or  cowardly  fear  —  perchance  both  com- 
mingled to  give  his  features  that  fiendish  and 
yet  half-craven  expression. 

Manson  cast  a  fierce  glaHce  at  him  and  smiled 
disdainfully. 

"  It  will  give  us  more  knowledge  of  the  man," 
he  said. 

Again  the  pallid  look  came  over  Hvatt,  but  the 
old  man's  eyes  were  upon  him,  and  he  rallied 
again. 

"  The  man  is  desperate  with  fear  of  losing 
your  daughter,"  he  said,  with  a  sneering  smile  ; 
"  and  who  can  blame  him  ?"  he  continued,  cast- 
ing a  glance  at  Lucy  that  made  her  shrink  closer 
to  Manson's  side. 

"  I  have  no  fear  of  losing  her,"  said  Manson, 
casting  a  powerful  arm  around  the  young  girl. 
"  She  is  my  promised  wife ;  I  neither  doubt  her 
or  fear  you.  The  day  will  come  when  Thomas 
Jones  there  will  know  you  as  you  are  I  God  for- 
bid that  it  will  then  be  too  late  to  save  his  old 
heart  the  trouble  you  are  preparing  for  it  I" 

"  We  have  had  enough  of  this  talk,"  said  the 
old  man.  "  Leave  my  house,  John  Manson  ;  I 
and  my  friend  here  want  a  mouthful  of  pie  and 
cheese  to  eat.  I  will  not  darken  the  door  until 
you  have  passed  through  !" 

"  You  shall  not  tell  me  to  begone  twice,"  said 
Manson,  in  the  same  proudly  sorrowful  tone  that 
he  had  maintained  throughout  while  addressing 
the  old  man.  "Good-by.  Lucy,  it  looks  Uke 
a  dark  day  for  us  now  ;  but  have  a  good  heart, 
they  cannot  keep  us  apart  long.    Good-by." 

"  Good-by,  and  do  not  fear  for  me,"  said  Lucy, 
returning  his  grasp,  while  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  "My  father's  doors  will  not  be  long 
closed  against  the  son  of  his  old  friend." 

"  I  never  expected  to  see  it !"  cried  the  young 
man,  dashing  his  hand  across  his  eyes  and  set- 
tUng  his  hat  as  if  the  motion  had  been  prompted 
by  that  intention  ;  then,  without  turning  his  face 
again  toward  the  two  men  at  the  window,  he  left. 
The  moment  he  was  gone  Jones  and  Hyatt  came 
round  to  the  front  of  the  cabin  and  entered  it. 

They  found  Lucy  striving  to  suppress  the  tears 
that  had  burst  forth  on  her  lover's  departure, 
but  without  seeming  to  heed  her  distress,  the  old 
man  bade  her  bring  out  eomething  to  eat,  oij- 


^2 


nOfjK  HTJJN;   OR,  THE  DAXTOnTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


aerving  that  he  should  not  be  at  home  to  dinner, 
and  perhaps  might  be  absent  until  late  at  night. 

Lucy  could  not  suppress  a  sigh,  and  her  tears 
began  to  flow  again.  Never  till  the  arrival  of 
Hyatt  in  the  neighborhood  had  her  father  spent 
any  of  his  evenings  from  home.  Punctual  in  all 
things  before,  since  that  time  his  entire  habits 
had  changed — irregularity  at  meals,  late  hours, 
and  a  general  neglect  of  his  work,  had  begun  to 
mark  a  life  hitherto  exemplary  and  almosit  pa- 
triarchal in  its  simplicitv. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  a  new  weight  at  her 
heart  that  Lucy  brought  forth  the  provisions 
that  her  father  had  commanded. 

Without  any  particular  reason  that  she  could 
have  defined  to  herself,  the  young  girl  had 
learned  to  dread  the  unpropitious  change  in 
her  father's  habits.  Still,  she  allowed  some  of 
her  feelings  to  become  manifest,  but  arranged 
the  little  table  in  silence.  In  order  to  make 
room  for  the  repast  Lucy  lifted  the  dish  of  cher- 
ries and  was  bearing  it  to  the  window  seat,  when 
Hyatt  coolly  reached  forth  his  hand,  attempting 
to  help  himself  to  a  portion  of  the  fruit. 

Lucy  drew  back  with  burning  cheeks,  and 
])lacing  the  dish  in  the  window,  cast  some  loose 
flowers  that  had  been  left  there  over  it,  and  mo- 
tioned the  unwelcomo.  guest  to  place  himself  by 
the  table. 

A  disagreeable  smile  gleamed  on  Hyatt's  face 
as  he  sat  down,  and  he  muttered  something  be- 
tween h'ia  teeth. 

"  Take  away  this  dish-water  and  give  us  some- 
thing fit  to  drink  !"  cried  the  old  man,  disdain- 
fully pushing  aside  the  cup  of  milk  that,  till  of 
late,  had  been  his  favorite  beverage.  "I  do  not 
see  why  we  should  not  have  brandy  to  drink  as 
Avell  as  those  who  call  themselves  our  betters." 

"  Yes,  with  wines  of  the  reddest,"  said  Hyatt. 
"  What  is  drink  for  one  man  is  drink  for  another. 
Were  I  on  the  island  its  owner  should  drink  no 
wine  which  did  not  wash  my  lips  too." 

Jones  looked  round  at  Lucy  somewhat  un- 
easily, and  touched  his  companion's  foot  under 
the  table. 

"  Hush !" 

Hyatt  nodded  his  head  and  answered : 

"  All  right ;  keep  that  Manson  from  her,  and 
she  is  too  fair  a  girl  not  to  feel  her  own  rights 
and  the  value  of  her  own  beauty." 

This  was  said  in  an  undertone,  and,  as  he 
spoke,  Hyatt  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at  Lucy, 
who  had  seated  herself  near  the  door,  and  was 
looking  out  as  if  to  a,void  any  conversation  with 
the  hateful  guest  her  father  had  brought  home. 

She  was  indeed  very  beautiful,  with  that  sad 
expression  of  countenance,  those  large  brown 
eyes,  mournful  and  yet  sparkling  with  recent 
excitement,  and  her  rich  hair  escaping  in  wavy 
tresses  from  the  braid  that  confined  it  at  the 
back  of  her  head. 

Jones  glanced  toward  her,  and  a  smile  of  pa- 
rental vanity  broke  over  his  face. 

"  She'll  do  well  enough,"  he  said ;  "  her  moth- 
er was  a  handsome  woman  ;  but  we  mustn't  put 
high-flown  notions  in  her  head." 

"Or  she  may  have  very  high  fancies  now," 
said  Hyatt.  "I  heard  over  at  the  tavern  that 
the  young  man  up  at  the  house  yonder  had  cast 
an  eye  upon  her,  and  that  you,  friend  Jones, 
were  over  fond  of  putting  her  in  his  way." 

"  You  heard  a  lie,  then  !"  cried  Jones,  striking 
his  clenched  hand  on  the  table  with  »  yiolence 


that  made  the  plates  rattle.  **  She  never  sees 
him  only  by  accident." 

"  Well,  well,  it's  all  talk,  I  suppose,"  said  the 
other,  softly ;  "or,  perhaps,  the  young  man  may 
have  spread  the  idea  himself.  These  snobs 
have  little  regard  for  the  character  of  a  poor 
girl  like  your  daughter." 

"The  villain  1"  exclaimed  Jones,  through  his 
Rhut  teeth,  and  clenching  the  handle  of  his  knife 
fiercely.  "  If  I  thought  he  had  said  such  things 
I  would  break  every  bone  in  his  body  !" 

"  Better  nreans  than  that  may  be  found  to 
punish  him  i"  Hyatt  replied,  still  in  that  sub- 
dued voice.  "  But  come  over  to  the  tavern  with 
me  now  ;  I  want  you  to  see  Mr.  Gorman." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

■  The  doctor,  who  had  been  sent  for  from  the 

nearest  town,  to  visit  old  Roberts,  decided  that 

he  had  been  attacked  with  rheumatic  fever  from 

the  effects  of  fatigue  and  exposure. 

"You  must  not  feel  any  uneasiness  what- 
ever," Conner  said  to  him  when  he  saw  the 
anxious,  almost  frightened  look  which  passed 
over  his  face  ;  "  there  is  no  danger,  and  you  will 

Srobably  suffer  this  severe  pain  only  a  few 
ays." 

"Is  it  danger  or  pain  that  I  mind!"  he  ex- 
claimed, indignantly.  "  If  anything  should  hap- 
pen to  me  before  the  master  comes  I" 

"  I  shall  be  writing  to  my  father  to-day,"  Ger- 
ald said  ;  "  do  you  wish  me  to  tell  him  you  are 
here  ?" 

"  Will  the  letter  get  to  him  and  no  other  per- 
son ?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"  There  is  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  it.  Who 
shall  I  tell  him  is  here  ?" 

"  Just  say  Roberts,  it  you  please.  That'll  be 
enough  if  it's  him,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 

"  Is  there  anything  you  would  like  to  say  to 
me  this  morning?"  Gerald  asked. 

Roberts'  face  wore  its  eager  look  again,  but  it 
died  away,  and  he  shut  his  lips  hard. 

"  I'll  just  hold  my  tongue,  no  offense  to  you, 
sir,"  he  replied.  "  I'm  only  a  poor  Irishman  - 
the  iriaster  11  know  what  to  do  with  me  when  he 
comes,  but  I'm  ashamed  to  see  the  likes  of  you 
tending  on  me." 

"  That  you  are  my  father's  countryman  is  rea- 
son enough,"  Gerald  answered.  "  You  must  be 
perfectly  easy  in  your  mind  ;  no  one  will  troubln 
you  or  try  to  find  out  anything  that  you  may  not 
wish  to  tell." 

There  were  tears  in  the  old  man's  eyes— Ger- 
ald saw  them  as  he  turned  his  head  upon  the 
pillow. 

"  I  know  I'm  not  mistaken,"  Roberts  whis- 
pered t©  himself;  "  he's  the  very  model  of  the 
old  master.  But  I'll  not  speak  yet— no,  I'll  not 
speak  till  I  have  every  proof." 

He  pressed  his  hands  hard  against  his  chest-- 
a  gesture  learned  since  he  had  carried  that 
paper  hidden  so  near  his  heart.  He  lay  for  some 
time  with  a  troubled  look  upon  his  face,  his  fin  ■ 
gers  locked  over  that  sacred  trust,  his  even 
sometimes  wandering  about  the  room  as  if  in 
search  of  some  object  which  he  could  not  find. 

"  Sir,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I'm  ashamed  to  trou- 
ble you,  but  if  you'd  unlock  my  bag  that  they've 
brought  up,  and  give  me  the  little  prayer-book 
out  of  it,  rd  take  it  very  kindly." 

Conner  did  as  he  requested,  and  placed  the 

worn  volume  on  the  pilfow  beside  him. 


HOCK  RUTN;    OR,  THE  DAUQIITEU  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


23 


"  I  will  leave  you  for  a  while  now,"  he  said  ; 
"  shall  I  have  Mrs.  Jordan  come  up  and  sit  with 
you  ?" 

"  "If  you'll  not  think  me  impertinent,  sir,  I'd 
rather  be  alone,"  he  replied,  humbly.  "  Please 
tell  them  not  to  come  in  for  an  hour." 

"  No  one  shall  intrude  upon  you,"  Conner  an- 
swered, and  having  arranged  his  pillows  and 
placed  some  cooling  drink  in  his  reach,  ho  left 
the  room. 

Roberts  waited  till  the  eoho  of  his  footsteps 
died  on  the  stairs,  then  he  raised  himself  feebly 
on  the  j)illow8,  and  taking  up  the  prayer-book, 
pressed  it  to  his  lips,  offering  a  broken  appeal 
for  assistance. 

After  a  time,  and  with  much  effort,  for  his 
limbs  were  stiff  and  swollen,  he  managed  to 
raise  himself  and  get  out  of  the  bed.  He  could 
hardly  walk,  but  he  crept  slowly  toward  a  great 
chair  that  stood  near  the  foot  of  the  bed,  shut- 
ting his  lips  closely  to  keep  back  the  groans 
which  every  movement  of  his  tortured  limbs 
forced  up  to  his  white  lips.  Slowly,  and  with  an 
effort  which  only  the  most  violent  exercise  of 
will  could  have  accomphshed,  he  managed  to 
tilt  the  chair  back  against  the  wall.  Then  he 
looked  round  like  a  wild  animal  that  is  trying  to 
conceal  its  young— saw  that  the  curtains  were 
drawn— no  human  being  watching  him. 

He  picked  up  his  knife,  which  had  fallen  upon 
the  carpet  near  the  place  where  he  was  crouch- 
ing, and  carefully  made  a  small  rent  in  the  lin- 
ing at  the  bottom  of  the  chair.  Ho  drew  from 
his  bosom  the  little  packet,  folded  it  in  a  still 
smaller  compass,  and  forced  it  carefully  into 
the  incision  he  had  made,  pressing  it  as  far  as 
he  could  reach,  in  spite  of  the  pain  to  his  poor 
withered  hands.  He  had  just  strength  enough 
left  to  puU  the  chair  forward  to  its  proper  posi- 
tion, then  he  sank  back  quite  helpless,  the  great 
drops  of  perspiration  rolling  down  his  face, 
while  his  whole  frame  shook  with  the  violent 
exertion  he  had  made,  which  had  ended  in  an 
agony  of  pain. 

"It's  safe  there,  master,"  he  muttered;  "be 
easy,  master,  it's  quite  safe—you  showed  me  in 
my  dream  where  to  put  it— I  know  it's  safe." 

It  was  some  minutes  before  he  was  able  to 
crawl  back  and  get  into  bed  again.  He  lay 
writhing  for  a  while  in  terrible  pain,  but  the 
agony  passed  away,  and  the  very  exertion  he 
had  used,  which  was  excruciatmg  torture  at  the 
time,  helped  to  bring  him  relief. 

While  he  lay  there  in  the  sort  of  stupor  which 
succeeds  the  cessation  of  acute  suffering,  he 
heard  the  door  open  gently,  and  the  house- 
keeper looked  into  the  room — ^behind  her  stood 
a  man,  but  Eoberts  paid  no  attention  to  the  in- 
truder. 

"  He  is  asleep,"  Mrs.  Jordan  whispered ;  "don't 
go  into  the  room." 

"  No,  of  course  not ;  he  looks  pretty  well  done 
up,  doesn't  he  ?" 

She  nodded  her  head  expressively,  closed  the 
door  without  noise,  and  they  went  away» 

Old  Roberts  had  only  completed  his  task  in 
time ! 

"  It's  safe  anyway."  he  kept  repeating  to  him- 
self, as  he  lay  with  his  eyes  nxed  upon  the  chair  ; 
"  I  can  sleep  easy  now — it's  better  than  many  a 
more  secret  hiding  place." 

Then  he  fell  asleep  muttering  of  old  times — 
he  wa»  at  home  in  the  castle  attending  upon  hie 


lord  —  i)eering  over  the  pleasant  days  of  his 
youth,  with  no  recollection  of  the  after  trouble 
Which  had  struck  him  through  his  idolized  mas- 
ter, no  thought  of  the  great  responsibility  with 
which  in  his  old  ago  he  had  left  his  native  land, 
and  which  had  bowed  and  wasted  him  more  than 
all  these  long,  weary  years  of  trial  and  devotion 
in  his  dead  master's  service  had  been  able  to  do. 


CHAPTER  X. 

NiOHT  had  come  on  dark  and  still;  a  few 
stars  were  in  the  sky,  the  low  sigh  of  the  spent 
breeze  died  away  in  the  forest,  but  save  that 
and  the  tireless  rush  of  the  water,  there  was 
no  sound  to  break  the  stillness. 

Gorman  stood  by  the  window  of  his  room  in 
the  tavern  looking  moodily  out  on  the  wat«»r  with 
the  blackness  of  a  restramed  tempest  upon  his 
face. 

The  httle  tavern  was  perfectly  silent ;  if  the 
men  who  made  up  his  party  were  engaged  over 
their  customary  game  of  cards,  they  were  unu- 
sually quiet— not  a  single  word  of  their  voices 
reached  the  chamber,  and  for  that  night  at  least 
old  dame  FUnt  could  congratulate  herself  upon 
a  more  undisturbed  rest  than  often  fell  to  her 
lot  when  her  house  was  filled  with  the  rough 
visitors  who  usually  frequented  it. 

At  last  Gorman's  quick  ear  caught  the  sound 
of  oars— his  senses  wore  so  quickened  by  sus- 
pense that  he  could  hear  it  distinctly  through 
the  rush  of  the  current. 

He  stepped  quietly  out  of  the  low  window 
which  opened  upon  the  rude  porch  and  walked 
quietly  down  to  the  river. 

"  Well,  Hyatt !"  he  said,  in  a  suppressed  voice, 
as  the  man  pushed  the  boat  up  to  the  shore. 

"  All  right,  get  in  and  let's  be  off— there'll  bo 
a  thunderstorm  in  less  than  half  an  hour." 

"  I  don't  see  any  signs  of  one,"  Gorman  said, 
as  he  took  his  seat  in  the  boat. 

"  You  would  if  you  knew  this  region  as  well  as 
I  do.  Don't  you  feel  how  close  it  is — see  those 
clouds  yonder,  there  — now  comes  a  flash  of 
lightning  sharp  enough,  I  reckon." 

"  Can  I  get  into  that  room  without  trouble?" 
Gorman  asked,  without  paying  any  attention  to 
his  companion's  words. 

"  Yes,  I  went  up  the  stairs  before  I  came 
away ;  the  old  man  was  asleep,  and  so  is  every- 
body in  the  house  by  this  time.  We'll  go  up  to 
the  upper  end  of  the  island  and  on  through  the 
woods,  so  if  any  one  should  happen  to  be  up, 
we  sha'n't  be  apt  to  meet  them." 

They  rowed  on  in  silence  past  the  island  and 
into  the  shadow  that  Rock  Ruin  cast  over  the 
water.  A  sharp  flash  of  lightning  shot  across 
the  Ruin  and  lighted  up  the  cUff  with  lurid 
brilliancy,  followed  by  a  low,  heavy  peal  of 
thunder  that  echoed  ominously  among  the 
hills. 

"  I  told  you  we  should  have  a  storm,"  said 
Hyatt.  "  Thank  fortune  there's  an  old  shed  en 
the  bank  where  I  want  to  land  the  boat ;  I  can 
go  back  there  and  wait,  after  showing  you  the 
way  up  to  the  house." 

Gorman  made  no  answer — he  heard  nothing 
of  the  words — even  the  sullen  boom  of  the  thun- 
der had  not  aroused  him  from  his  black,  terrible 
thoughts.  Another  flash  of  lightning  revealed 
that  face  to  Hyatt,  pale  and  scowling,  the  fea- 
tures set  with  a  fienaisU  reaolve. 


24 


ROCK  BUIN;   OR,  THE  BAUGIITEB  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


"  Good  heavens  1"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  shud- 
der that  he  tried  to  turn  into  a  laugh  ;  "  I  won- 
der if  my  face  looks  hke  yours  by  this  lightning 
—if  It  does,  it's  hot  the  sort  of  way  I  should 
choose  to  have  my  portrait  painted  in." 

"  Folly !"  returned  Gorman,  speaking  impa- 
tiently through  his  teeth,  but  he  did  not  speak 
again  until  the  boat  swept  into  the  little  cove 
where  Hyatt  intended  to  land. 

"  A  fellow  has  to  go  a  good  deal  by  the  sense 
of  feeling,"  he  said.  "It's  lucky  I  know  the 
place  pretty  well,  for  it's  as  dark  as  pitch." 

A  vivid  flash  of  lightning  almost  blinded  him 
as  he  concluded  his  words  ;  again  the  thunder 
boomed  out  loud  and  terrible,  echoing  and  loom- 
ing over  Rock  Ruin  with  mighty  reverberations. 
The  first  heavy  drops  of  the  storm  came  patter- 
ing down  upon  the  leaves. 

"  Hurry  along,"  said  Hyatt,  "or  we  shall  be 
wet  to  the  skin  ;  the  lightning'll  show  you  the 
path  back  plain  enough." 

Gorman  followed  him  in  silence  along  the 
winding  walk,  and  as  they  emerged  from  the 
wood  the  lightning  revealed  the  house  close  at 
hand.  They  passed  on  to  the  porch  and  stood 
for  a  few  moments  listening.  The  rain  was  fall- 
ing heavily  and  the  thunder  claps  came  with 
such  incessant  cannonading  that,  if  people  had 
been  stirring  in  the  house,  their  footsteps  could 
not  have  been  heard. 

"  You're  lucky  in  your  night,"  whispered  Hy- 
att. *'  Go  straight  up  these  stairs— you  see  the 
light  up  there,  and  the  window's  partly  open, 
too— that's  all  fortunate."  Then  he  caught  Gor- 
man's arm  as  he  made  a  motion  to  ascend  the 
stairs.  "  Slip  oft  your  shoes,"  he  said,  *'  you'll 
go  like  a  cat  then." 

The  man  obeyed  in  silence,  and  passed  on  up 
the  winding  staircase.  He  set  his  shoes  down 
upon  the  porch  and  crept  up  to  the  window.  A 
night-lamp  was  burning  on  the  table,  and  by  its 
dim  radiance  he  could  see  the  form  of  the  old 
man  lying  in  bed ;  his  eyes  were  closed  and 
there  was  no  watcher  in  the  room. 

A  scowl  of  deadly  hate  darkened  his  face  as 
he  gazed  in  at  the  sleeper,  then  he  pushed  the 
window  softly  open  and  stepped  over  the  sill- 
he  was  in  the  chamber. 

Hyatt  stood  below  watching,  but  when  he  saw 
the  man  disappear  he  turned  and  went  rapidly 
down  the  path  toward  the  river. 

"  It's  no  good  for  me  to  be  prowling  about," 
he  thought ;  "  if  anything  happens  I  am  better 
out  of  the  way." 

There  Gorman  stood,  and  almost  within  reach 
of  his  arm  lay  the  man  who  was  the  only  living 
thing  between  him  and  the  realization  of  his 
most  ardent  hopes.  For  a  few  seconds  he  re- 
mained motionless,  gazing  down  upon  the  old 
man  with  a  look  so  full  of  menace  that  it  seemed 
as  if  the  sleeper  must  be  aroused  by  it  to  a  sense 
of  his  danger,  but  there  was  no  movement  save 
the  regular  breathing,  which  proved  how  pro- 
found was  the  slumber  of  exhaustion  into  which 
the  old  man  had  fallen. 

Gorman  crept  stealthily  toward  the  bed  and 
bent  over  him  for  an  instant ;  his  fingers  knotted 
themselves  convulsively  together — the  desire  to 
wreak  his  vengeance  upon  the  faithful  old  ser- 
vant was,  for  the  second,  the  paramount  idea  in 
his  mind.  He  startod  back  euddonly— tb©  sleep- 
er had  stirred.  He  orcniohBd  down  at  tbo  foot 
of  \h^]  bed  until  ai«kur©d  tbftt  h^  was  q^iet  agaiu? 


then  he  arose  and  crept  to  the  valise  that  stood 
in  a  corner  of  the  room.  A  portion  of  the  old 
man's  garments  hung  on  a  chair  by  it.  Gorman 
sought  eagerly  in  all  the  pockets,  found  the  key, 
and  opened  the  trunk.  There  was  the  humble 
store  of  clothing,  neatly  folded,  but  no  papers, 
except  two  or  three  unimportant  letters  ;  beside 
these,  a  miniature,  which  Gorman  threw  down 
without  opening— he  recognized  it  only  too 
well. 

Nothing  there ;  the  old  man  had  thwarted  him 
still  1  His  baffled  passion  rendered  him  desper- 
ate then,  and  he  began  to  search  the  room  over 
with  reckless  haste.  Ho  found  the  waistcoat  in 
the  wardrobe,  saw  the  rent  that  had  been  made, 
and  understood  at  once  what  had  been  secreted 
there. 

"  He  must  have  it  about  him,"  was  his  thought, 
"  or  Conner  has  got  it." 

He  returned  to  the  bed  and  again  bent  over 
the  old  man.  He  passed  his  hand  across  his 
breast ;  there  was  nothing  concealed  under  the 
thin  flannel  covering.  He  looked  once  more 
around  the  room;  there  was  no  place  that  had 
not  been  searched  thoroughly. 

He  forgot  the  common  instinct  of  safety ;  his 
passion  so  blinded  him  that  his  chief  thought 
was  to  put  an  end  to  the  life  that  had  thwarted 
his  own.  He  flung  the  sheet  over  the  old  man's 
head  and  pressed  his  fingers  savagely  upon 
his  throat. 

The  old  man  awoke,  strangling.  With  that 
heavy  weight  upon  his  breast  and  that  iron 
grasp  at  his  throat,  he  could  do  nothing  but 
struggle  with  a  blind  instinct  of  self-preserva- 
tion. He  exerted  all  his  poor  force,  striving  to 
cry  out,  but  could  emit  no  sound  beyond  a  groan 
like  that  of  a  nightmare  ;  indeed,  his  brain  was 
so  bewildered  by  the  narcotics  which  he  had 
taken  that  he  coald  not  be  sure  it  was  more 
than  a  horrible  dream. 

"  Where  is  that  will  ?"  hissed  a  voice  in  his 
ear.     "  Give  it  up,  or  you  are  a  dead  man  !" 

The  old  man  struggled  more  violently,  loos- 
ened the  clutch  upon  his  throat,  and  started  up- 
right with  a  cry  that  rang  through  the  house. 

Gerald  Conner  had  been  writing  until  late  in 
one  of  the  lower  rooms,  and  was  ascending  the 
stairs  when  the  terrible  shriek  awoke  his  ear. 
He  rushed  in,  threw  open  the  door,  and  saw  the 
old  man  gasping  and  struggHng  feebly  upon  the 
bed,  but  there  was  no  one  in  the  room. 

He  sprang  to  the  bed  and  lifted  the  old  man 
from  his  pillow,  calling  his  name,  but  Roberts 
was  so  completely  exhausted  that  he  could  not 
answer;  a  low  moan  broke  at  intervals  from  his 
lips,  and  that  grew  fainter  and  fainter.  Gerald 
brought  some  water  and  wet  his  forehead  and 
his  lips. 

"  Drink  a  little,"  he  said ;  "you  will  be  better 
then." 

The  old  man  swallowed  a  few  drops  with  dif- 
ficulty, and  his  scattered  senses  began  to  return. 

"  Has  he  gone  ?"  he  gasped.   "  Has  he  gone  ?" 

"  There  is  no  one  here,"  replied  Gerald ;  "  you 
have  had  a  terrible  nightmare,  that  is  all." 

"  I  tell  you  I  heard  his  voice,"  he  cried  wildly ; 
"  he  was  choking  me— look  at  my  throat." 

A  faint  streak  of  red  was  visible  upon  the 
wrinkled  skin,  but  it  escaped  Gerald's  notice  ia 
the  dim  light. 

"There  was  no  one  horo,"  ho  said;  "looh; 
rOttijcWnothiug  bab  boeu  luovud  in  the  roofflu'* 


ROCK  RUIN;    OR,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  TEE  ISLAND. 


25 


Robfirta  stared  wildly  about— even  in  his  own 
mind  he  could  not  be  certain.  The  reality  of 
that  dreadful  struggle  was  vivid,  but  so  hadJaeen 
his  dreams  many  a  time  since  that  will  came 
into  his  hands. 

"  I  heard  him,"  he  groaned ;  "  I  felt  his  hands 
at  my  throat  I  He  was  here  I  Oh,  why  don't 
the  master  come  ?" 

"  Try  and  go  to  sleep  again,"  urged  Gerald. 

"  Don't  leave  me,"  pleaded  the  poor  old  fel- 
low, grasping  the  young  man's  hands  in  his, 
shaking  both.  "I'm  not  afraid  to  die,  but  you 
must  guard  me  till  he  comes." 

"  I  will  sit  by  you,"  Gerald  answered,  kindly, 
taking  a  chair  by  the  bedside.  "  There,  keep 
hold  of  my  hand— you  will  sleep  more  quietly.'^ 

The  old  man  lay  motionless  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, but  the  horror  of  that  struggle  came 
back  more  vividly,  and  he  could  not  be  con- 
vinced that  it  was  only  a  fantasy  of  sleep. 

"  He  was  here  I"  he  cried.  "  I  know  he  was  ! 
He  will  murder  me,  but  he  can't  get  that  parch- 
ment—he can't !" 

"  Who  was  the  man  you  thought  was  here?" 
Gerald  asked. 

Roberts  would  not  answer ;  he  only  writhed 
about  in  nervous  agitation,  muttering  wildly. 

"You  are  mistaken,"  continued  Gerald;  "I 
ran  in  when  you  cried  out  I  If  there  had  been 
a  man  he  could  not  have  escaped.  You  have  a 
high  fever,  and  the  morphine  made  you  deli- 
rious—I have  often  seen  my  father  so  when  he 
was  sick." 

"  Are  vou  sure  it  was  a  dream  ?"  pleaded  Rob- 
erts. "It  was  very  real— I  felt  his  hand  mov- 
ing over  my  heart— oh,  I  couldn't  breathe  !" 

"No  one  could  get  in  here,"  said  Gerald. 
"  We  are  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and  the  dogs 
are  sure  to  bark  ferociously  if  anybody  came 
near  the  premises  at  night.  It  was  only  a  dream 
— don't  think  of  it  again  !" 

He  succeeded  at  length  in  partially  reassuring 
the  old  man,  and  he  again  fell  asleep,  although 
until  almost  morning  it  was  a  broken,  feverish 
slumber,  which  brought  him  little  rest.  Many 
times  he  woke  in  wild  afiright,  from  which  only 
the  touch  of  Gerald's  hand,  and  the  tones  of  that 
voice,  which  seemed  so  familiar,  could  recover 
him.  { 

During  a  portion  of  the  conversation  Gorman 
had  been  crouched  down  upon  the  porch,  lis- 
tening eagerly  to  every  word.  He  was  armed, 
and  more  than  once  his  fingers  played  viciously 
with  the  heft  of  a  revolver,  concealed  under  his 
vest;  but  for  the  noise  of  a  report  he  would  have 
fired  through  the  window.  Could  either  the 
poor. sick  man  or  his  companion  have  seen  him 
they  might  almost  have  believed  that  it  was 
some  evil  spirit,  evoked  by  the  tempest,  glaring 
in  upon  them,  so  terrible  was  the  face  that  looked 
in  through  the  window  amid  the  lurid  flashes  of 
lightning. 

At  length  he  crept  quietly  down  the  stairs,  put 
on  his  shoes,  and  hurried  toward  the  boat.  It 
was  more  by  chance  than  from  taking  any  notice 
of  his  course  that  he  found  the  path.  The  fury 
of  the  storm  was  vet  ucabated,  but  he  was  not 
even  conscious  that  his  garments  were  wet 
through  and  through  during  that  rapid  walk. 
Several  times,  after  a  flash  of  lightning  had 
blinded  him  for  an  instant,  he  rushed  against  a 
tree,  or  fell  over  the  fallen  branchea  that  the 
whirlwind  had  scattered  about,  but  ho  did  not 


heed  the  pain,  was  hardly  conscious  of  it  beyond 
the  muttered  curse  at  the  delay. 

Hyatt  had  taken  refuge  in  the  old  shed,  and 
when  he  heard  Gorman  running  past,  he  held 
out  the  dark  lantern,  which  he  had  lighted,  and 
gave  a  low  v/histle. 

"Where  the  deuce  are  you  going?"  he  ex- 
claimed, as  the  other  paused.  "  You'd  have 
run  bang  into  the  river  in  a  moment." 

"  Let  us  be  off,"  said  Gorman,  hoarsely.  ^ 

"  Wait  till  the  rain  holds  up  a  little.    Come  in  j 
here."  ( 

Gorman  entered  the  shed  and  sat  down  in  sul- 
len silence. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  hand  ?"  asked 
Hyatt ;  "  it's  covered  with  blood." 

"  I  hurt  it  against  a  tree,  I  suppose,"  he  re- 
plied. 

"There's  been  no  rough  work  up  there,  I 
hope  ?"  said  Hyatt,  with  a  suspicious  look. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool— no  1" 

"  Did  you  get  what  you  wanted?" 

Gorman  replied  with  a  deep,  bitter  execra- 
tion, 

"I  should  have  killed  him,  I  do  believe  I 
should,"  he  said.  "  I  wish  I  had  ;  there  would 
have  been  some  satisfaction  in  that,  any  way." 

"Then  you  are  all  at  sea  again  about  the 
papers  you  wanted  ?"  asked  Hyatt. 

"Completely;  but  I  can't  talk  just  now;  wait 
till  we  get  back  to  the  house." 

"  Take  a  sip  of  this  brandy,"  said  Hyatt,  pass- 
ing him  a  small  flask ;  "you'll  find  it  good." 

Gorman  put  it  back,  almost  rudely. 

"  My  blood  is  on  fire  now,"  he  said  ;  "I  don't 
want  to  heat  it  any  more." 

Hyatt  bore  the  slight  philosophically,  put 
the  flask  to  his  own  lips  and  took  a  copious 
drink. 

"  The  rain's  holding  up  a  little,"  he  observed  ; 
"  since  you  are  in  such  a  hurry  we  will  go ;  you 
are  as  di-enched  as  you  can  be  now  ;  and  I  don't 
mind  a  wet  jacket,  so  come  on." 

They  went  down  to  the  boat  and  were  soon 
under  weigh,  floating  rapidly  down  the  current. 
The  storm  cleared  as  suddenly  as  it  had  came 
up,  and  by  the  time  they  reached  the  tavern  the 
rain  had  ceased  and  a  few  stars  were  out ;  only  a 
mass  of  black  clouds  hanging  over  Rock  Ruin 
remained  to  give  evidence  of  the  violence  of  the 
tempest. 

They  entered  their  room  through  the  window, 
and  Hyatt  forced  his  companion  to  change  his 
clothes.  He  made  a  pitcher  of  cold  punch,  and 
after  filling  the  glasses,  seated  himself  opposite 
Gorman  at  the  table,  saying : 

"  Now  we  can  talk  comfortably." 

At  another  time  the  man's  familiarity  would 
have  ott'ended  the  haughty  patrician,  but  his 
mind  was  too  deeply  engrossed  in  his  plans  to 
pay  any  attention  to  a  lack  of  respect  or  cour- 
tesy. 

"  I  must  talk  to  you  now,"  he  answered ; 
"  there  is  no  help  for  it." 

"  Well,  you  know  I  am  to  be  trusted " 

"  Bah !"  Gorman  interrupted.  "  I  can  buy  your 
aid  and  silence  ;  I  never  trust  any  man  farther 
than  that." 

Hyatt  laughed  carelessly. 

"  You  have  a  lofty  idea  of  the  human  race,"  he 
said,  puffing  away  at  his  cigar  with  the  utmost 
tranquility. 

They  began  to  converse ;  Gorman  talked  ex- 


26 


HOCK  imiN;   OH,  TEE  DATTOHTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


cifcedly  but  with  groat  clearness,  and  as  he  lis- 
tened, Hyatt's  face  grew  eager  and  serious,  and 
the  questions  he  asked  were  to  the  point,  such 
as  an  astute  lawyer  might  have  put. 

"  He  has  either  hidden  the  will  or  given  it  to 
young  Conner,"  Hyatt  said  at  last. 

"I  don't  think  he  would  give  it  up." 

"I'll  wager  anything  it  is  locked  up  in  the 
vault  where  the  old  chap  keeps  a  store  of  plate 
and  papers,"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  sudden 
gleam  in  his  eye  which  the  other  did  not  notice, 
but  would  have  revealed  to  a  less  occupied  per- 
son that  the  man  had  some  plan  of  his  own  to 
further  while  carrying  out  the  project  of  his  fel- 
low schemer. 

"  Then  the  next  thing  is  to  get  into  that  vault," 
said  Gorman.  "  Of  course,  young  Conner  keeps 
the  keys  during  his  father's'absence." 

"  Yes  ;  he  is  going  away  in  a  few  days  ;  then 
they  will  be  left  with  James,  or  Bradley,  or  old 
Jones." 

Gorman  rose  from  his  seat  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  room  in  deep  thought. 

"  I  must  go  back  to  my  old  plan,"  he  said,  as 
he  returned  to  his  seat.  "  You  told  me  that  old 
Jones'  father  had  a  pr^-emption,  or  something 
of  that  kind,  on  a  portion  of  the  land,  and  that 
Conner  bought  it  very  cheap  ?** 

"  Yes,  and  I " 

"  It's  through  him  we  must  act,"  interrupted 
Gorman.  "  I  know  you  are  friends  with  him  and 
crazy  after  the  daughter ;  if  we  succeed  you 
shall  take  a  fortune  with  her." 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  first  ?" 

"You  must  make  old  Jones  believe  that  his 
grandfather  was  cheated;  tell  him  there  are 
papers  proving  it ;  we  will  help  him.  Hint  Con- 
ner's secret  closet.  He  must  understand  that  I 
am  a  lawyer,  and  ready  to  help  him  on  your  ac- 
count." 

He  explained  hia  plan  clearly,  and  Hyatt  ap- 
proved warmly. 

"  You  ought  to  have  been  a  lawyer,"  said  he ; 
"  your  head  is  clear  as  a  bell." 

Gorman  smiled  disdainfully. 

"  Can  you  manage  this  ?"  h«  asked. 

"  I  think  so  ;  the  old  man  is  weak-headed  as 
a  child  ;  I  can  wind  him  round  my  finger." 

"Your  men  must  have  something  to  do," 
continued  Gorman  ;  "  otherwise  some  curiosity 
might  be  aroused  by  our  presence.  You  see 
Jones  to-morrow  and  buy  that  raft.  Getting  it 
in  order  will  give  them  occupation.  I'll  supply 
funds." 

"  We  shall  have  to  hire  men  to  do  the  work," 
said  Hyatt;  "those  chaps  won't  turn  a  hand 
themselves." 

'  "Do  it,  then;  at  least  they  can  direct  the 
workmen,  and  seem  to  have  business  here. 
That's  enough." 

Those  two  bad  men  sat  weaving  their  plans 
until  almost  morning,  and  before  they  retired  to 
rest  the  whole  plan  of  villainy  was  laid  out  and 
ready  for  speedy  execution. 

Long  after  Hyatt  was  asleep  Gorman  sat  by 
the  table  lost  in  thought ;  and  when  the  first  chill 
gi-ay  of  morning  crept  in  through  the  windows 
he  threw  himself  upon  the  bed  without  undress- 
ing, and  forgot  for  a  time  his  hopes  and  fears 
in  that  deep  slumber  which  visits  the  thorough- 
ly hardened  and  purely  innocent  alike,  strange 
as  we  may  think  it. 

He  awoke  more  coutident  and  determiuecl  tbau 


ever.  He  would  have  offered  his  soul  in  return 
for  the  possession  of  that  will.  There  was  no 
depth  of  crime  into  which  he  was  not  ready  to 
plunge  in  order  to  secure  his  desires.  He  had 
plotted  too  many  years,  lost  himself  in  too  ter- 
rible a  depth  of  sin  to  relinquish  his  purpose, 
now  that  liate  seemed  to  have  brought  him  so 
near  to  the  consummation  of  his  purpose. 


CHAPTER  XI. 
Sevekal  days  had  passed  since  Hyatt  had 
succeeded  in  producing  the  difficulty  between 
old  Jones  and  John  Manson  ;  and  during  all 
that  weary  time,  which  had  seemed  almost  in- 
terminable to  her,  poor  little  Lucy  had  not  * 
once  met  her  lover. 

It  was  almost  the  first  trouble  she  had  known  ; 
added  to  that,  the  gradual  change  in  her  father's 
habits  and  manners  tilled  her  with  groat  unea- 
siness. He  went  nightly  over  to  the  tavern,  and 
although  he  had  forbidden  h«r  to  sit  up  for  him, 
she  could  not  sleep,  and  very  often  it  would  be 
almost  morning  before  she  heard  his  step  on  the 
stairs ;  once  or  twice  it  had  sounded  so  halting 
and  uneven  that  the  heart  sunk  in  her  bosom, 
for  she  could  not  understand  its  disgraceful 
meaning. 

All  the  sunshine  had  gone  out  of  the  poor 
child's  life.  Her  sources  of  happiness  had  been 
very  limited,  although  they  had  hitherto  proved 
sufficient  to  her  mnocent  mind.  The  society  ot 
her  lover  and  the  affection  she  bore  her  father 
comprised  her  life  ;  now  she  was  deprived  of  the 
first,  and  her  father  was  growing  so  irritable  and 
sullen  that  she  fairly  shrunk  from  his  presence. 

Lucy  had  no  companions  of  her  own  age ;  th«) 
only  female  friend  she  had  ever  possessed  was 
Mrs.  Jordan,  and  to  her  she  owed  a  great  deal. 
The  old  lady  was  a  fairly  educated  New  England 
woman,  with  delicate  and  womanly  tastes,  and  a 
great  fondness  for  books,  and  all  those  habits 
she  had  instilled  into  Lucy's  mind. 

Mr.  Conner's  library  was  large  and  well  chosen, 
and  Lucy  had  always  been  allowed  free  access 
to  it ;  thus  she  had  acquired  a  degree  of  cultiva- 
tion one  would  hardly  have  expected  to  find  in 
persons  of  such  parentage,  and  reared  in  that 
retired  spot. 

Her  mother  had  been  dead  many  years,  and 
even  as  a  little  girl  Lucy  had  kept  her  father's 
house,  gi'owing  up  under  Mrs.  Jordan's  coun- 
sels and  instructions  a  most  accomplished  house- 
keeper. She  had  great  talent  for  embroidery 
and  all  sorts  of  needlework,  and  the  same  good 
friend  had  raked  up  all  her  own  knowledge,  of 
the  art  for  the  girl's  benefit,  so  that  the  little  log- 
house  was  filled  with  specimens  of  her  skill, 
which  helped  to  adorn  its  rude  simplicity,  and 
converted  the  log-cabin  into  something  like  a 
rustic  bower. 

Lucy  had  not  seen  Mrs.  Jordan  since  that  un- 
happy night ;  the  first  approach  of  soitow  had 
made  her  shrink  into  herself  for  a  time,  like  a 
sensitive  plant  that  has  been  too  rudely  handled. 
But  that  afternoon  her  own  home  seemed  so  sol- 
itary and  desolate  thair  she  put  on  her  bonnet 
and  started  for  the  great  house,  carrying  with 
her  a  number  of  books,  which  her  conscience 
reproached  her  for  not  having  returned  earlier, 
possessing  in  that  matter  a  degree  of  delicacy 
and  care  which  many  higher  born  females  would 
(io  weU  to  imitate, 


110 ex  RUIN;   OR,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LHLANI). 


27 


She  found  Mrs.  Jordan  seated  in  her  own 
pleasant  room,  that  opened  on  a  small  flower 
garden,  which  was  her  own  special  possession, 
and  cultivated  by  her  own  hands.  The  old  lady 
was  enjoyinj^  an  hour's  quiet  after  the  fatigues 
of  the  morning  ;  not  that  with  her  much  repose 
meant  idleness,  by  no  means  — she  held  her 
knitting  work  in  her  hands,  and  her  practiced 
fingers  shot  the  needle  in  and  out  of  the  worsted 
till  they  emitted  little  gleams  of  light  at  every 
motion  of  her  hands.  She  had  a  book  open  on 
the  little  stand  before  her  and  was  reading,  but 
at  Lucy's  quiet  knock  at  the  half-open  door  she 
pushed  back  her  spectacles  and  called  out  pleas- 
antly, while  taking  a  seam  stitch  : 

"  I  know  who  that  is— come  in,  come  in !  Why, 
Lucy,  child,  what  have  you  been  doing  with 
yourself?  I  was  just  thinking  about  going  down 
to  yoiir  house  to  see  if  you  were  lost." 

Lucy  laughed  a  little,  gentle  laugh,  but  her 
heart  was  too  heavy  for  much  merriment.  She 
entered  the  room  and  took  her  favorite  place  on 
a  low  chair  by  the  old  lady's  side,  whereupon  a 
pet  cat  jumped  immediately  into  her  lap,  the 
only  spot  that  suited  his  imperial  fancy  when 
the  young  girl  was  in  the  house. 

"  Nap  has  missed  you  dreadfully,"  said  Mrs. 
Jordan;  "I  declare,' I've  half  a  mind  to  scold 
you  or  be  offended  in  downright  earnest." 

"  I  hope  you  won't  be  either,"  Lucy  said,  try- 
ing to  smile,  but  there  was  a  gravity  in  her  voice 
which  Mrs.  Jordan  had  not  noticed  before.  It 
made  her  look  up  anxiously  from  her  work. 

"  Have  you  been  sick  ?"  she  asked.  "  It  seems 
to  me  you  look  a  little  worried.  Nothing  much 
the  matter,  is  there  ?" 

"  I  am  very  well ;  I  have  stayed  in  the  house 
too  much— I  guess  that  is  all." 

"  Something  troubles  you  then,"  said  Mrs. 
Jordan;  "I  can  see  it  in  your  face.  What  is 
the  matter,  Lucy  ?" 

It  only  needed  the  kindness  and  sympathy  in 
her  voice  to  unsettle  Lucy  at  once ;  she  laid  her 
head  against  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  cried  for 
several  moments  as  if  her  heart  would  break, 
repeating  again  and  again  : 

"  I  know  it's  foolish,  but  I  can't  help  it,  indeed 
I  can't." 

Mrs.  Jordan  kissed  her  and  smoothed  her 
hair,  and  tried  by  her  caresses  to  restore  the 
girl's  composure,  but,  like  a  sensible  woman, 
she  waited  until  the  first  burst  of  grief  was  over 
before  she  asked  a  single  question. 

"  There,  I  feel  better,"  said  Lucy  at  last,  lift- 
ing her  head  and  brushing  the  tears  from  her 
eyes.  "  I've  been  wanting  to  cry  all  day,  but  it's 
so  lonesome  doing  it  at  home  with  nobody 
near." 

"  Now  you  must  tell  me  what  your  trouble  is," 
said  Mrs.  Jordan.  "  Have  you  and  John  been 
having  some  Uttle  difficulty  ?  A  lover's  quarrel, 
ha !" 

Lucy  shook  her  head. 

"  I  haven't  seen  him  for  three  days." 

"  He  has  been  on  the  mainland  up  in  the 
mountain  at  work,  but  he  has  come  back  this 
afternoon— he  ran  in  and  spoke  to  me  a  few  mo- 
ments ago.  Surely  you  are  not  feeling  so  bad 
just  because  he's  been  away  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  I'm  not  so  silly  as  that,"  and  then 
her  cause  of  distress  burst  forth  with  fresh  out- 
bursts of  tears,  and  the  old  lady  learned  that 
her  father  had  quarreled  with  Manson,  and  she 
was  suffering  in  consequence. 


"  It  will  all  pass  over,"  Mrs.  Jordan  said,  after 
they  had  discussed  the  matter.  "  You  know  your 
father  is  a  little  crotchotty,  but  he'll  come  out 
right  in  the  end." 

"  Father  is  very  determined,"  Lucy  answered, 
"  and  if  he  gets  angry  with  a  person  he's  a  long 
time  forgetting  it." 

"  I  am  sure  he  will  make  up  this  quarrel  when 
he  sees  how  unhappy  it  makes  you.  Would  you 
like  me  to  have  a  talk  with  him  about  it  ?" 

"  It  wouldn't  do  any  good  yet,"  Lucy  replied  ; 
"  he  would  only  blame  me  for  telling  you ;  it  al- 
ways makes  him  angry  if  I  repeat  anything  that 
happens  at  home." 

fiven  to  her  best  friend  Lucy  could  not  hint 
the  other  trouble  which  weighed  so  painfully  at 
her  heart ;  she  could  not  bear  to  admit  that  she 
feared  her  father  was  getting  into  intemperate 
habits,  and  faithfully  hoping  that  when  Hyatt 
left  the  neighborhood  he  would  go  back  to  his 
old  ways,  she  delicately  kept  his  secret. 

But  a  long  talk  with  Mrs.  Jordan  comforted 
her  in  regard  to  her  more  personal  cause  for 
unhappiness,  and  after  a  time  she  could  talk 
quite  cheerfully  upon  other  subjects. 

"Mr.  Conner  has  sent  Mr.  Gerald  a  package 
of  new  books,"  said  Mrs.  Jordan,  "  and  he  told 
me  I  was  to  read  them  and  lend  them  to  you ; 
so,  you  see,  we  shall  have  plenty  of  amusement 
for  the  long  autumn  evenings,  which  are  not  so 
far  off,  for  this  summer  goes  like  the  wind." 

"I  shall  be  glad  when  winter  comes,"  said 
Lucy,  "  if  only  that  it  will  keep  that  Hyatt  away." 

"  You  seem  very  bitter  against  this  man, 
Lucy  ?" 

"  I  do  dislike  him  so  !  I  don't  believe  he's  a 
good  man ;  his  voice  is  so  soft  and  his  ways  so 
hatefully  smooth,"  Lucy  exclaimed,  with  a  pas- 
sion she  seldom  showed. 

"  That  don't  seem  a  fair  reason  fur  blaming  a 
person  so  severely,"  said  Mrs.  Jordan,  laugh- 
ing a  little  at  her  energy.  "  I  guess  he  likes 
5'ou  a  little  too  well,  isn't  that  it  ?" 

"I  can't  bear  to  sit  in  the  room  with  him," 
continued  Lucy  ;  "  I  always  run  away  now  when 
I  hear  him  coming.  But  father  seems  to  Uke 
him.  How  anybody  can,  I  don't  understand. 
He  talks  such  nonsense- as  if  I  cared  for  his 
compliments  !  He  acts  as  if  he  thought  I  was 
one  of  those  girls  in  a  novel,  that  believed  all 
the  foolishness  anybody  chose  to  talk." 

"You  are  right  iaot  to  be  intimate  with  him," 
Mrs.  Jordan  said;  "  nobody  here  knows  much 
about  him,  but  I  am  sure  his  manners  are  very 
good,  and  he  is  always  extremely  polite." 

"  Well,  I  don't  like  him,"  said  Lucy,  decided- 
ly. "I  believe  he  made  the  trouble  between 
father  and  John.    Indeed,  I  almost  hate  him." 

"Oh,  you  must  not  get  unjust  suspicions  in 
your  head,  Lucy  ;  that  is  not  just  to  yourself." 

Lucy  colored  a  little,  but  she  did  not  relin- 
quish her  opinion. 

"  He  has  bought  Jones'  raft,  he  and  his  part- 
ners," Mrs  Jordan  said.  "They  have  got  men 
at  work  putting  it  to  rights." 

"  So  father  told  me,  and  there's  a  lawyer  or 
something  came  up  with  them.  I  can't  help  it 
if  it  is  wrong,  but  I  know  when  these  people  are 
here  there  is  more  drinking  and  trouble  among 
the  men,  and  old  Mrs.  Flint  says  the  same 
thing." 

"  Then  old  Mrs.  Flint  had  better  not  be  so 
ready  to  sell  them  liquor,"  retorted  Mrs.  Jor- 


28 


ROCK  RTIIN ;   OR,  TRE  DAUGHTER  OF  TEE  ISLAND. 


dan,  who  held  the  tavern-keeper  in  low  esteem 
for  her  gossiping  habits,  and  because  she  kept 
a  bar,  Mrs.  Jordan  having  very  strict  ideas  on 
the  subject  of  temperance.  "  I  hope  you  don't 
go  there  much,  Lucy— a  bar-room  always  full  of 
lumbermen  is  no  place  for  a  young  girl." 

"  Oh,  I  hardly  set  foot  in  the  place  from  one 
month  to  another,  but  she  comes  to  our  house 
sometimes." 

"  Our  old  man  seems  to  get  a  little  stronger," 
Mrs.  Jordan  said,  feeling  that  quite  time  enough 
had  been  spent  on  old  Mrs.  Flint. 

"  He  is  a  very  old  man  to  have  come  out  here 
from  across  the  Atlantic,"  returned  Lucy. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Gerald  says  he  knew  his  father  years 
ago ;  I  dare  say  he  is  poor,  and  came  to  find  a 
home." 

"And  he  will." 

"  Yes,  indeed.  Why,  Mr.  Gerald  watches  him 
and  takes  care  of  him  as  if  he  were  a  duke,"  said 
Mrs.  Jordan,  calling  on  uer  novel-reading  rem- 
iniscences for  a  comparison.  "  Our  Gerald  is 
the  best  young  man  !" 

Then  the  good  lady  went  oJT  into  a  short  eu- 
logium  upon  the  young  man,  fur  in  her  eyes  Mr. 
Gerald  was  without  a  peer. 

So  they  passed  the  afternoon  in  pleasant  femi- 
nine talk,  both  keeping  their  fingers  busily  em- 
ployed the  while.  If  I  have  given  more  of  their 
conversation  than  seems  at  all  necessary,  it  is 
because  life  is  made  up  of  those  quiet,  gentle 
scenes  in  its  general  features.  Incidents  of 
pain  and  sin  are  in  almost  every  human  exist- 
ence—  the  exception,  as  we  have  ten  days  of 
Btorm  to  one  of  sunshine. 

It  was  sunset  before  Lucy  returned  home, 
having  waited  to  drink  tea  with  Mrs.  Jordan, 
as  her  father  had  been  sent  by  Mr.  Gerald  down 
to  the  neighboring  town  upon  business,  and 
would  not  return  until  late. 

Lucy  walked  along  through  the  pleasant  fields 
and  shadowy  groves  with  a  lighter  heart;  she 
was  so  far  encouraged  by  Mrs.  Jordan's  kindly 
advice  that  she  felt  at  least  resolved  to  wait  pa- 
tiently for  a  time,  and  see  if  her  father  did  not 
overcome  the  sudden  prejudice  which  he  ap- 
peared to  have  conceived  against  Manson. 

Just  as  she  gained  the  outskirts  of  the  last 

frove  and  was  looldng  down  upon  her  quiet 
ome,  she  heard  a  footstep  benind  her,  and 
turning  suddenly,  found  herself  face  to  face 
with  Hyatt.  She  could  not  repress  a  shudder  of 
absolute  loathing,  and  with  a  cold  bow  was  pass- 
ing on,  but  he  called  out : 

"Why,  Miss  Lucy,  you  are  not  going  to  treat 
an  old  acquaintance  in  that  way,  are  you  ?" 

"  It  is  getting  late,"  she  answered,  "  and  I  am 
in  a  hurry— father  will  be  home  and  waiting  for 
his  supper." 

"  I  saw  you  leave  the  house,  and  I  came  after 
you,  so  that  you  need  not  have  a  lonesolme  walk, 
but  mistook  the  path." 

"  I  am  accustomed  to  walking  alone  all  over 
the  island,"  she  replied,  coldly.  "  Nobody  could 
lose  me." 

"  How  did  you  find  our  friend  Mrs.  Jordan  ?" 
he  asked,  walking  along  by  her  side  with  an  air 
of  easy  assurance. 

"  Quite  well,"  she  answered,  almost  sharply, 
thoroughly  wearied  by  his  importunity.  "  Don't 
let  me  take  you  out  of  your  way,  Mr.  Hyatt ;  I 
really  am  in  great  haste.*" 

He  bit  hjs  lips  angrily,  but  beyond  that  and 


the  flash  in  his  black  eyes,  betrayed  no  irrita- 
tion. 

"  Why  do  you  treat  me  so  coldly  ?"  he  asked, 
in  a  grieved  sort  of  tone.  "  What  have  I  done 
to  ofiend  you,  Lucy  ?" 

"  I  am  not  offended,  only  anxious  to  get  home," 
she  replied,  still  walking  rapidly  on. 

"  Will  you  let  me  talk  with  you  for  a  few  mo- 
ments ?" 

"I  can't  ^ait, Mr.  Hyatt,"  she  replied,  reso- 
lutely, roused  by  his  persecution  to  a  pitch  of 
firmness  that  would  have  astonished  herself  in 
a  calmer  moment ;  "  I  told  you  so  before." 

"  Let  me  go  on  to  the  house  with  you,  then," 
he  said  ;  "  I  can  talk  to  you  there." 

"  My  father  is  not  at  home,"  she  replied. 

"A  moment  ago  you  thought  he  would  be 
there." 

"  Did  I  ?    It  is  uncertain— I  don't  know." 

"  But  it  is  you,  not  your  father,  1  wish  to  see." 

"Mr.  Hyatt,  you  are  very  unkind,  to  say  the 
least,"  she  exclaimed.  "  Will  you  let  me  pass  ?" 
she  demanded,  angrily,  for  ho' was  standing  di- 
rectly before  her. 

"  Only  hear  me  first,"  he  pleaded,  m  that 
strangely  musical  voice,  which  would  have  done 
him  admirable  service  as  an  actor. 

"  You  certainly  can  have  nothing  of  very  great 
importance  to  say ;  I  saw  you  only  yester- 
day." 

"  It  seems  ages  ago !"  he  said,  mournfully." 
"  Indeed,  I  have  something  very  important— to 
me  at  least." 

"  Then  it  must  wait,  for  I  want  to  go  home. 
To-morrow  my  father  will  be  here— you  can  talk 
to  me  when  he  is  by." 

"  Your  father  knows  what  I  want  to  say— he 
has  seen  what  my  feelings  are  just  as  plainly  as 
you  have  done." 

"  I  never  thought  you  had  any  feeling,"  burst 
indignantly  from  her  lips  ;  then  she  colored  crim- 
son at  her  rudeness,  and  said,  quickly  :  "I  beg 
your  pardon,  Mr.  Hyatt.  You  had  much  better 
let  me  pass— I  am  not  feeling  at  all  amiable  ;  if 
I  stay  I  shall  certainly  say  things  which  I  may 
regret." 

"  I  would  rather  you  treated  me  harshly,"  he 
exclaimed,  "  than  to  pass  me  m  cold  indiffer- 
ence." 

"I  have  no  msh  to  be  rude,"  she  answered, 
beginning  to  feel  a  vague  sort  of  alarm  at  his 
earnestness  and  the  bold  look  in  his  eyes. 
"  Please  to  let  me  go  on,  Mr.  Hyatt." 

"One  moment,  Lucy;  I  only  ask  one  I"  he 
said,  passionately.  "  You  know  that  I  love  you. 
I  have  shown  it  ioo  plainly  for  you  to  be  blind. 

She  interrupted  him  passionately. 

"  Mr.  Hyatt,  I  cannot  hear  this  language." 

"  Surely  there  can  be  nothing  offensive  in  an 
avowal  of  honest  affection,"  he  returned. 

"  If  it  is  sincere  I  am  sorry,"  replied  Lucy, 
"  for  I  cannot  even  listen." 

"  Am  I  so  hateful  in  your  sight  ?" 

"You  interpret  my  words  to  suit  yourself;  I 
said  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"  Give  me  a  little  time— at  least,  let  me  plead 
my  cause !  Let  me  show  you  by  my  devotion 
how  truly  1 4ove  you." 

He  raised  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his 
mouth.  Lucy's  anger  gave  her  strength,  and 
she  snatched  it,  with  desperate  loathing,  from 


ROCK  RTIIN;   OR,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


29 


his  lips,  although  she  could  not  release  it  from 
his  grasp. 

"  Tfiis  is  unmanly !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Let  go 
my  hand,  Mr.  Hvatt ;  you  take  a  poor  way  to 
touch  any  woman  s  heart." 

He  dropped  her  hand. 

"  I  beg  yonr  pardon,"  he  said ;  "  I  forgot  my- 
self." 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  do  so  again,"  ehe  replied, 
haughtily.  "  Good-night,  Mr.  Hyatt— I  will  not 
stay  here  any  longer." 

She  hurried  on  along  the  footpath,  but  he  still 
kept  his  place  at  her  side,  pouring  out  a  flood 
of  sentimental  nonsense,  which  might  have 
struck  an  ordinary  girl  in  Lucy's  position,  but 
for  once  novel  reading  had  been  of  some  ser- 
vice. In  the  really  good  books  which  Mrs.  Jor- 
dan had  lent  her,  Lucy  had  read  the  same  sen- 
timents much  better  expressed,  and  it  seemed 
so  unnatural,  so  unlike  anything  real,  that  if  it 
had  not  been  for  her  anger  and  fear  she  would 
have  laughed  outright.  As  it  was,  she  sought 
refuge  in  silence,  hurrying  on  more  rapidly  and 
not  ever  looking  toward  him. 

They  reached  the  doorstep  of  her  house,  and 
Lucy's  impulse  was  to  enter  and  close  the  door 
in  his  face,  but  before  she  couldjaccomplish  her 
purpose  he  had  again  taken  her  hand. 

"Let  go  my  hand !"  she  exclaimed,  passion- 
ately. 

He  replied  only  by  another  flood  of  extrava- 
gant language,  and  while  she  was  struggling  to 
escape  from  him,  John  Manson  came  up  the 
path.  He  heard  her  indignant  remonstrance 
and  went  up  to  the  spot.  Without  a  word  he 
snatched  Lucy's  hand  from  that  of  her  perse- 
cutor, and  stood  confronting  Hyatt  with  a  fierce- 
ness which  the  suffering  of  the  past  few  days 
made  more  dangerous. 

"  How  dare  you  treat  any  young  woman  in 
this  manner  ?"  he  exclaimed. 

"  I  would  advise  you  not  to  come  in  my  way, 
young  man,"  hissed  Hyatt,  growing  livid  with 
passion. 

"  Then  take  yourself  off,"  cried  John.  "No- 
body but  a  coward  would  detain  a  girl  against 
her  wishes." 

"  I  am  invited  here  by  Mr.  Jones,"  returned 
Hyatt;  "  whereas,  I  heard  him  turn  you  out  of 
the  house  only  three  nights  ago.  You  have  no 
business  here,  at  any  rate." 

"  I  sha'n't  account  to  you  for  my  actions,  Mr. 
Hyatt.  I  have  to  thank  you  for  making  trouble 
between  me  and  Lucy's  father.  There  never 
was  a  hard  thought  until  you  came  prowling 
about  here." 

"  At  all  events,  as  Mr.  Jones'  friend,  I  have  a 
right  to  order  you  away  from  this  place." 

"  You'd  better  try  it,  that's  all !"  exclaimed 
Manson,  folding  his  arms  over  his  broad  chest, 
and  giving  him  a  nod  of  such  significance  that 
Hyatt  involuntarily  retreated  a  step. 

"  The  other  night  you  were  ready  to  quarrel 
with  her  father,  now^  it  is  with  me,"  he  said. 
"  Some  day  Lucy  will  have  her  eyes  opened,  and 
know  you  better  than  she  does  now." 

"  She  doesn't  need  any  information  from  you, 
at  all  events,"  retorted  John.  "  Your  best  plan 
will  be  to  take  yourself  off,  Mr.  Hyatt." 

The  young  man's  face  showed  such  angry  de- 
termination that  Lucy  was  frightened ;  she  laid 
her  hand  gently  upon  his  arm  ;  the  very  move- 
ment increased  Hyatt's  passion. 


"  You  are  protected,"  he  sneered  ;  "  you  are 
safe  to  be  insulting." 

Manson  made  a  movement,  but  Lucy  clung  to 
him. 

"  Mr.  Hyatt,"  she  said,  "  [  ask  you  to  go  away, 
and  not  to  come  here  till  my  father  is  at  home. 
John,  if  you  have  a  quarrel  here  I  never  will 
forgive  you." 

She  spoke  very  firmly  in  spite  of  her  agitation, 
and  the  two  men  controlled  themselves  a  little 
at  her  command. 

"  Good-night,  Miss  Lucy,"  said  Hyatt,  sudden- 
ly ;  "1  hope,  when  I  see  you  again,  you  will 
have  thought  over  the  matter  of  which  we  were 
speaking.' 

He  gave  a  parting  glance  full  of  baffled  rage 
and  malice  toward  Manson,  and  slunk  into  the 
path  that  led  toward  the  mansion  house. 

When  he  had  disappeared,  Lucy  sat  down  upon 
the  doorstep  and  cried  bitterly,  so  completely 
overcome  by  the  excitement  of  the  last  hour 
that  she  was  weak  as  a  child. 

"  Lucy,  Lucy,  don't  cry  so  !"  pleaded  John. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  she  sobbed.  "  I  know  that 
man  will  make  us  more  trouble  in  some  way." 

•'  If  he  comes  between  us  he  shall  repent  it !" 

"  You  must  not  quarrel  with  him,"  returned 
Lucy ;  "  it  would  only  make  father  more  angry 
with  you,  more  cruel  to  me." 

"  But  what  have  I  done  to  make  him  disUke 
me  ?"  demanded  Manson. 

"  I  don't  know ;  it's  all  that  man's  work,  I  am 
sure ;  we  shall  never  have  peace  until  he  is 
gone." 

"  Why,  I've  known  your  father  half  my  life," 
he  said ;  "  and  will  he  let  a  man  that  he  has  not 
seen  more  than  half  a  dozen  times,  and  that  not 
more  than  a  fortnight  together,  make  a  misun- 
derstanding between  us  ? 

"  Father  is  never  like  himself  when  he  is 
here,"  said  Lucy,  sadly,  wiping  away  her  tears. 
"  I  can't  see  how  he  has  got  such  influence  over 
him." 

"  I  came  here  to-night  to  see  your  father,"  re- 
sumed John.     "  I  want  to  talk  this  thing  over." 

"  He  isn't  at  home ;  he's  gone  to  the  town  for 
Mr.  Gerald." 

"  I  can  wait  till  he  comes  back,"  he  soon  re- 
plied, almost  sullenly. 

"  You  mustn't,  John  ;  indeed,  you  mustn't." 

*'  Do  you  mean  that  you  don't  want  to  see  me 
here  ?"  he  demanded,  with  a  man's  jealousy  and 
quick  suspicion. 

"Don't  say  such  things  to  me  !"  cried  Lucy, 

Eressing  her  hands  hard  together ;  "if  you  speak 
arshly  to  me  it  will  break  my  heart ;  I  have  all 
I  can  bear  now." 

He  put  his  arm  around  her  waist  and  drew  her 
up  toward  him. 

"  I  didn't  mean  it,  Lucy,  you  know  I  didn't; 
but  all  this  trouble  is  so  new  it  turns  my  head." 

"  We  can  only  wait,"  said  Lucy ;  "  it  peems  to 
me  it  must  end  before  long." 

"  But  why  shouldn't  I  see  your  father,  and  ask 
him  to  tell  me  honestly  why  he  is  angry  with 
me  ?  If  he  thinks  I  have  done  anything  wrong 
he  ought  to  tell  me  so." 

"  Don't  do  it  yet,"  urged  Lucy ;  "  Mrs.  Jordau 
says  it  will  be  better  to  wait." 

"  Wait !"  he  repeated ;  "  we  are  both  breaking 
our  hearts  I  What  right  has  anybody  to  say 
'  wait'  ?" 

"  It  would  be  of  no  use  while  Hyatt  is  here," 


30 


JiOCK  HULN ;    OR,  THE  DAUGHTKfi  OF  TFIE  IHLANl), 


Lucy  answered.  "  Oh,  John,  you  don't  know 
what  influence  he  has  over  father  1" 

"  I've  seen  it  growing  for  some  time  past.  A 
bad  man  that  is,  very  bad  !" 

"  I  believe  so,  too ;  I  fairly  tremble  to  hear 
his  voice,"  Lucy  went  on  ;  "but  father  likes  him, 
and  you  know  how  set  he  is.  Oh,  if  he  only 
would  keep  away  from  that  man  and  from  the  tav- 
ern. I  couldn't  "say  it  to  anybody  else,  not  even 
to  Mrs.  Jordan,  but  he  goes  there  too  much." 

"  I  know  that,  Lucy ;  it's  always  so  when  Hy- 
att comes  here." 

"  Sometimes  he  isn't  home  until  almost  morn- 
ing," and  Lucy,  in  her  impotent  weakness,  had 
no  resource  but  lior  tears.  "  He  won't  let  me 
say  a  word  to  him.  He  is  no  more  like  himself 
thiiu  if  he  had  changed  his  whole  nature." 

"It's  too  much !"  cried  the  young  man.  "I 
wish  Mr.  Conner  were  at  home. 

"  Why,  father  even  talks  about  him  in  the 
strangest  way.  Only  last  night  he  went  on  about 
something  I  could  not  understand  at  all ;  any- 
body would  have  thought  that  Mr.  Conner  had 
been  cheating  him." 

"  We'll  get  all  right  when  that  Hyatt  is  gone," 
John  said,  soothiugly,  although  in  his  own  mind 
there  lurked  a  fear  that  these  irregular  habits 
might  fa:^ten  themselves  so  strongly  \ipon  this 
poor  girl'h  father  that  ho  could  not  shake  them 
off. 

"  I  hope  so,"  returned  Lucy  ;  "  I  am  sure  be 
will." 

"  But  what  are  we  to  do  ?"  John  asked.  "  Must 
I  keep  away  from  the  house  and  hardly  see  you, 
because  that  villain  has  been  at  his  black  work  V" 

"  Don't  quarrel  with  him,  John,  whatever  hap- 
pens ;  promise  me  that  you  won't,"  she  pleaded, 
growing  pale  at  the  terrible  ideas  her  fancy  con- 
jured up. 

"I  promise  you  that,"  he  answered;  "keep 

ur  mind  easy,  Lucy,  I  won't  quarrel  with  him.  ' 

"He'd  just 'like  that,  because  it  would  turn 
father  still  more  against  you." 

"  Then  he  sha'n't  have  the  gratification,  that's 
all !  You  know  you  can  trust  me  when  I  give 
my  word." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  am  not  afraid  now." 

She  sat  down  again  upon  the  doorstep,  looking 
so  worn  out  and  utterly  miserable,  notwithstand- 
the  gleam  of  animation  which  was  dying  from 
her  face,  that  it  wrung  John's  neart. 

"  They  can't  turn  you  against  me !"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  I  am  sure  of  you,  any  way,  darling !" 

She  only  answered  by  a  look,  but  it  was  more 
eloquent  than  a  volume  of  words  would  have 
been— so  eloquent  was  it,  so  full  of  faith  and  de- 
votion, those  best  and  noblest  feelings  which 
form  the  leading  traits  in  the  character  of  every 
true  woman, no  matter  what  her  station  maybe. 

They  talked  there  by  the  humble  threshold- 
stone,  sharing  their  first  sorrow,  until  it  grew 
qiiite  dark,  a  ad  the  plash  of  the  waters  upon  the 
shore  sounded  like  sad  voices  through  the  still- 
ness. 

"  You  had  better  go,  John,"  Lucy  said,  at 
length  ;  "  father  will  be  back  soon,  and  I  know 
he  would  only  be  angry  at  seeing  you." 

"  I  wouldn't  do  anything  to  make  the  breach 
wider,  you  may  be  sure  of  that,"  he  replied.  "I 
shall  see  you  to-morrow  morning — I  must !  I 
sha'n't  have  any  strength  or  hope  without !" 

"I  will  see  you,  John;  I  don't  believe  it's 
wrong." 


youri 


They  parted  sadly,  each  feeling  that  the  dark- 
est hour  of  their  troubles  had  not  yet  arrived, 
although  neither  would  have  pained  the  other 
by  the  acknowledgment. 

After  he  had  gone,  Lucy  sat  a  little  longer 
alone  in  her  sadness,  but  fortunately  her  duties 
called  her  from  that  sad  and  profitless  medita- 
tion. 

She  went  into  the  house,  kindled  the  fire,  and 
began  preparations  for  her  father's  supper,  try- 
ing to  compose  herself,  so  that  she  might  meet 
him  as  cheerfully  as  possible  when  he  returned. 

Supper  was  ready  and  waiting  before  she  heard 
his  steps  upon  the  path.  She  did  not  run  out, 
as  she  would  formerly  have  done,  to  meet  him  ; 
he  had  changed  so  much  in  his  conduct  toward 
her  that  she  was  grov  mg  fearful  of  receiving 
unkind  words  from  the  parent  who  a  year  before 
would  not  for  the  world  have  given  her  a  re- 
proachful glance. 

He  came  in  looliiug  tired,  but  Lucy  found  a 
pleasanter  expression  in  his  face  than  he  had 
worn  of  late,  and  ran  joyfully  up  to  meet  him. 

"You  look  completely  worn  out,  father,"  she 
said ;  "  how  very  fate  you  are." 

"Yes;  it  was  hard  pulling  up  the  river,"  h'- 
replied,  "  and  I  am  both  tired  and  hungry." 

"  Supper  is  all  ready,"  she  said,  kissing'him, 
"  I  have  been  waiting'for  you  evei'  so  long." 

She  talked  pleasantly  to  him  while  he  got 
ready  for  the  meal,  and  he  appeared  much  morr 
cheeVful  than  usual.  They  were  nearly  doc 
supper  before  anything  arose  to  change  hi. 
variable  mood. 

"What  have  you  been  about  all  day?"  li! 
asked. 

"  I  have  been  with  Mrs.  Jordan  all  the  after- 
noon." 

He  frowned,  and  muttered  something  unin- 
telligibly. 

"  When's  Conner  coming  back?"  he  in- 
quired. 

"They  don't  know;  it  may  be  some  time 
yet." 

"  Small  loss,"  he  grumbled. 

"  Oh,  father !  and  you  used  to  be  so  fond  of 
him  !" 

"  I'm  a  gettin'  my  eyes  open,  gal,"  he  said  ; 
"  I've  been  blind  as  a  bat  these  few  years  back." 

"I  would  rather  be  blind  than  lose  all  faith 
in  my  friends  and  those  who  had  been  kind  to 
me." 

"Kind!  Wal,  I  should  think  I'd  earned  my 
way,"  he  exclaimed,  bringing  his  hand  heavily 
down  upon  the  table,  and  working  himself  into 
one  of  the  angry  fits  which  had  become  so.  cus- 
tomary with  him.  "  I  know  what  you  mean  by 
that  talk  about  old  friends  ;  you  was  a  thinking 
of  that  John  Manson.  Have  you  seen  him  to- 
day?" 

"  Yes,  father  ;  he  came  here  to  see  you." 

"The  sneak!  after  my  ordering  him  out  of 
the  house !" 

"  Father,  why  do  you  talk  of  him  in  this 
way?"  she  asked,  speaking  as  gently  as  she 
could.    "  You  used  to  like  him  so  much." 

"Never  you  mind  about  that,"  he  returned; 
"  just  be  satisfied  to  do  as  I  tell  you." 

"  But  I  am  not  satisfied  to  have  my  own  hap- 
piness destroyed  in  this  way.  You  permitted 
me  to  engage  myself  to  him ;  and  now,  when  I 
love  him  dearly,  and  it's  quite  impossible,  you 
order  me  to  think  no  more  about  him." 


BOCK  RTJIN;    OB,  THE  DAUaHTJEB  OF  THE  ISLAND, 


U 


"  Now  don't  be  coming  round  me  with  your 
fine  book  tallc.  I  don't  understan4  nothin' 
about  it,  and  you'd  be  just  as  well  if  you  didn't. 
I  won't  have  him  about  me.  He  was  sassy  to 
me  the  other  day,  and  I'll  make  him  pay  for  it." 

"But  you  won't  always  be  angry  at  him?" 
she  pleaded. 

"  Wal,  wal,  don't  fret ;  let  things  alone." 

"But  I  can't,  father;  it  is  making  me  very 
miserable." 

"  He  hadn't  no  business  to  come  here." 

"He  came  just  at  the  moment  to  save  me 
from  the  persecutions  of  that  hateful  wretch, 
Hyatt  I"  she  exclaimed,  indignantly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked,  sharply. 
"Now  don't  tell  lies  'cause  you  don't  like  the 
man.  At  the  same  time,  if  he  does  anything 
that  ain't  right,  I'll^ — " 

"  He  followed  me  home,  and  insisted  on  talk- 
ing to  me.  He  caught  hold  of  my  hand,  and 
wouldn't  let  it  go  ;  and  just  then  John  came  up. 
The  man  is  a  pitiful  coward." 

Her  father  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  He 
had  never  seen  his  gentle  child  betray  so  much 
excitement  in  her  whole  life. 

"  The  man  ain't  to  blame  for  being  fond  o' 
you,"  he  said.  "There's  many  a  gal  would 
think  twice  afore  she'd  throw  a  rich  man  like 
liim  over  for  John  Manson." 

"  I  wouldn't  marry  him  if  he  were  a  king !" 
she  exclaimed,  passionately.  "You  need  have 
no  hope  of  that,  father.  You  may  separate  me 
from  John,  but  nothing  shall  ever  induce  me  to 
marry  that  man.  I  would  beg,  starve,  throw 
myself  into  the  river  first !" 

"  Don't  go  on  so  like  a  crazy  body.  I'll  fling 
every  book  I  find  into  the  fire,  if  you  don't  look 
out.  There's  where  you  get  sich  idees,"  he  said, 
angrily.  "  Any  how,  there  ain't  no  talk  about 
your  marrying^Hyatt,  nor  anybody  else.  Who's 
that  ?"  he  added,  as  some  one  ca'me  toward  the 
door. 

"  Hallo,  Jones  !"  some  one  called. 

The  old  man  went  to  the  door,  and  saw 
Winter,  one  of  the  men  who  had  accompanied 
Hyatt. 

"  Good  evening,"  he  said.  "Wont  you  come 
in  ?" 

"No;  it's  getting  late.  Hyatt  wants  you  to 
come  over  to  the  tavern." 

"  Wal,  I  do'  know,"  he  said,  hesitatingly ; 
"  I'm  amazing  tired." 

"  Oh,  father,  don't  go !"  Lucy  exclaimed. 
"  It's  bed-time  now,  and  I'm  so  lonesome  here." 

"  He  wants  to  talk  to  you  about  that  busi- 
ness," said  the  man  in  a  lower  voice;  "you'd 
better  come  over." 

"  I  guess  I  will ;  hold  on  till  I  get  my  coat," 
he  said,  turning  back  into  the  house. 

"Are  you  going,  father?"  Lucy  asked,  tear- 
fully. 

"  Yes,  yes— don't  worry  me  I  There  won't  any- 
thing happen  to  you,"  he  added,  more  gently. 
"  Bo  a  good  gal  and  don't  fret ;  I'll  be  back  in 
an  hour,  and  if  Mother  Flint's  got  anything  nice 
in  her  store  I'll  bring  it  to  you— maybe  a  new 
dress."  - 

"If  you  would  only  stay  at  home,"  she  re- 
peated. 

"But  I  must,  Lucy;  I've  got  some  business 
with  them  gentlemen  ;  I  can't  lose  the  chance 
of  making  some  money." 


Bhe  said  nothing  more,  and  he  went  away, 
displeased  with  himself,  but  unable  to  resist. 

It  was  very  late  when  he  returned,  but  Lucy 
was  awake.  She  had  gone  to  bed,  but  sleep 
would  not  come,  pray  for  it  as  she  might ;  even 
after  he  came  she  could  only  lie  wakeful  and 
anxious,  and  with  her  heart  aching  under  its 
new  load  of  care.  The  poor  chij^d  was  just  wak- 
ing to  a  consciousness  of  what  woman's  Ufe  only 
too  often  is  ;  even  with  the  most  prosperous  and 
happj^  there  are  trials  and  mai-tyrdoms,  of  which 
men,  in  their  arrogant  bhndness,  do  not  even 
think,  and  perhaps  the  hardest  part  of  the 
trouble  is  that  the  worst  anguish  of  her  life  is  so 
freq^uently  inflicted  without  a  consciousness  of 
having  given  pain. 


CHAPTER   Xn. 

Three  men  sat  late  in  the  evening  on  which 
Lucy  sat  watching  for  her  father's  return, 
upon  the  banks  of  the  river ;  when  the  moon- 
light shone  out,  it  revealed  Gorman,  Jones  and 
Hyatt. 

"And  so  you  have  searched  carefully  what 
papers  you  possess  ?"  Hyatt  asked. 

"  Every  one  of  'em,  and  that  ain't  many,  but 
nothing  of  the  sort  can  I  find." 

"Still  you  know  that  your  uncle  once  owned 
a  portion  of  this  island?"  Gorman  said,  trying 
hard  to  throw  off  his  haughty  manner,  which 
was  particularly  offensive  to  the  sturdy  back- 
woodsman. 

"Yes,  but  I  always  thought,  till  you  told  me 
better,  that  it  was  sold  to  the  old  gentleman 
over  yonder." 

"  No,  no;  there  was  a  debt,  a  mere  trifle,  and 
your  uncle  knew  nothing  of  the  laws  ;  this  Con- 
ner took  advantage  of  his  illness  and  ignorance, 
and  swept  his  boundaries  around  the  whole." 

"But  the  deeds,"  said  the  old  man;  "I 
haven't  got  a  scrap  of  paper  to  show  that  my 
uncle  ever  owned  the  land— you  see  I  was  living 
in  another  state  then.  Besides,  Mr.  Conner  is 
rich,  and  I've  got  no  money  to  fee  you  lawyers 
with." 

"  As  for  that,"  interrupted  Hyatt,  bending  his 
eyes  to  the  earth  and  casting  a '  sidelong  glance 
at  the  old  man  through  his  dark  lashes  ;  "  as 
for  that,  there  can  be  no  trouble.  The  mo- 
ment I  am  Lucy's  husband,  and  thus  have  a 
claim  hereafter  on  the  land,  all  that  will  be 
managed.  Besides,  my  Mend  Mr.  Gorman  has 
promised  to  assist  me  with  his  legal  knowl- 
edge." 

The  haughty  man  bit  his  lip  at  this  familiar 
appellation,  but  only  said  : 

"  The  deeds  !  If  we  only  had  the  deeds,  all 
would  be  easy  enough." 

"  But  how  are  they  to  be  found?  Where  can 
they  be  ?"  asked  the  old  man,  becoming  more 
and  more  earnest. 

"  The  moment  I  got  an  inkling  of  the  claim," 
said  Hyatt,  "  from  papers  that  were  placed  in 
Mr.  Gorman's  hands,  I  thought  you  must  have 
the  papers." 

"I  should  like  at  lp,st,"  added  Gorman,  "  to 
see  justice  done  an  honest, man." 

"  But  what  is  to  be  done  ?"  asked  the  old  man, 
dejectedly;  "I  don't  know  no  more  than  a 
baby." 

"It  is  a  great  disappointment  to  Hyatt,"  pur- 
sued Gorman,  tapping  his  boot  with  a  stick  he 
had  picked  up  in  the  woods.    "  They  tell  m© 


82 


noCKBVlN;   Oli,  THE  DAmtiTEM  OF  THE  IBIAND. 


your  daughter  is  very  lovely,  and  his  business 
IS  prospering.  With  his  savings  and  yom-  farms, 
you  might  have  set  up  as  landholders  your- 
selves." 

"Jones!"  exclaimed  Hyatt,  earnestly,  "you 
must  find  those  deeds." 

"But  how — where  am  I  to  look?"  cried  he, 
with  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "They  are  not 
at  my  house."  * 

"  But  I  have  seen  a  memorandum  which  con- 
vinces me  of  their  existence,"  said  Gorman. 

Hyatt  lifted  his  hands  as  if  some  sudden  idea 
had  struck  him,  and  exclaimed : 

"  At  Conner's  house— they  must  be  there." 

The  old  man's  face  brightened. 

"  How  stupid  of  me  not  to  think  of  that  be- 
fore," he  said,  with  animation.  "  Of  course  the 
deeds  are  in  his  house.  I've  seen  up  in  a  closet, 
where  there's  a  lot  of  silverware  kept,  9,  tin  box 
labeled  '  important  papers.'  But  then,  how  are 
we  going  to  get  a  sight  at  'em  ?  Mr.  Conner 
ain't  goin'  to  give  us  leave  to  rummage  his 
papers." 

Gorman  gave  Hyatt  a  glance  which  he  under- 
stood. The  color  came  and  went  on  the  young 
man's  cheek,  and  he  began  to  uproot  a  cluster 
of  wild  flowers  with  the  heel  of  his  boot. 

The  thing  which  he  had  to  propose  was  so 
important  that  even  his  audacious  self-posses- 
sion gave  way,  and  for  a  moment  he  stood  there 
in  silence.  He  caught  Gorman's  commanding 
look  again,  and  said  in  his  insinuating  way : 

"  The  old  gentleman  is  away,  and  of  course 
his  son  could  give  no  j^ermission  for  the  search. 
But  in  looking  for  that  which  is  your  own  why 
should  you  ask  permission  of  any  one  ?  As  head 
farmer  Vou  have  charge  of  the  whole  place." 

"And  if  I  have,"  cried  Jones,  bluntly,  "  do 
you  think  I  would  abuse  my  trust  ?" 

"Do  you  think,"  interposed  Gorman,  "that 
this  Conner  will,  of  his  own  accord,  render  up 
papers  that  will  curtail  one-fouith  of  the  richest 
portion  of  his  property?  Yet  the  papei's  are 
yours  and  you  haA'e  a  right  to  them.  If  he  will 
not  deliver  them  up— and  who  expects  this  of 
him— how  are  they  to  be  seen  ?" 

"  Sure  enough,  I  have  a  right  to  my  own  prop- 
erty," muttered  the  old  man. 

"  And  have  a  right  to  search  for  it  wherever 
it  is  unjustly  detained,"  said  Hyatt,  still  busy- 
ing himself  with  the  broken  tutt  of  blossoms. 

"  Why,  yes,"  saidthe  old  farmer,  half  reluct- 
antly ;  "yes,  I  haven't  no  doubt  of  that— but 
still "^ 

"  But  still  you  cannot  break  the  bondage  this 
aristocrat  has  placed  you  in  with  his  European 
ideas,"  exclaimed  Gorman.  "  You  are  afraid  of 
his  displeasure,  and  so  give  up  a  rich  inherit- 
ance rather  than  take  the  only  means  left  of 
securing  it  to  yourself.  I  have  lived  many  years 
abroad,  but  I  never  expected  to  see  such  a  spirit 
in  a  citizen  of  this  free  country." 

The  old  man's  cheek  blazed,  and  his  whole 
fiery  spirit  was  aroused  by  this  speech.  Hyatt 
marked  the  signs  of  his  anger— the  clenched 
hands,  the  swelling  ch^t,  and  the  fierce  trem- 
bling of  his  lips. 

"Mr.  Gorman  did  not  mean  to  offend  you," 
he  said. 

"No,"  returned  the  other,  "I  did  not.  But 
this  thing  requires  the  courage  to  do  ri^ht,  and 
I  am  disappointed  in  not  finding  it  in  your 
6-iend."     ^^ 


"  I  am  not  afraid  to  do  anything  that  is  hon- 
est," said  Jones  ;  "  I  am  not  afraid  of  anything 
or  anybody." 

"Courage  is  beautiful  when  honorably  ap- 
plied," said  Gorma.n,  very  gravely.  "  This  is  a 
case  of  the  plainest  justice.  The  proofs  of  your 
inheritance  lie  in  yonder  house,  almost  within 
your  reach." 

"  But  young  Conner,  I  tell  you,  never  would 
allow  it.' 

"  He  told  me,"  said  Hyatt,  carelessly,  "  that 
he  should  have  to  go  down  the  river  very  soon. 
When  he  is  gone  the  house  will  be  in  your 
charge." 

"  No  it  won't ;  you're  mistaken  there,"  rephed 
the  old  man  ;  "  I  have  charge  of  the  island^  and 
the  farms,  but  not  of  the  house." 

Hyatt  started,  and  the  color  left  his  face,  while 
Gorman  gave  him  a  furious  look. 

"  Indeed,  1  thought  it  was  otherwise,"  he  said, 
in  a  voice  that  shook  in  spite  of  Mis  efforts  to 
appear  m  different. 

"  Mrs.  Jordan  allers  has  the  keys  to  the  house, 
and  John  Mansqn  keeps  the  ones  to  the  closet 
where  they've  got  all  that  silver  and  them  pa- 
pers stowed  away.  John  has  been  with  them 
sence  he  was  a  boy,  and  they  set  great  store  by 
him." 

The  old  man  advanced  a  few  steps  to  take  a 
look  at  something  he  saw  in  the  river,  and  Gor- 
man whispered  to  Hyatt : 

"  So  you  have  been  on  the  wrong  track  all  tho 
while— the  other  was  the  one  to  deal  with— thia 
infernal  luck  I" 

"  I'm  not  80  sure  of  that,"  returned  Hyatt,  in 
the  same  tone  ;  "  have  a  little  patience,  we  shall 
see." 

They  walked  on  to  the  spot  where  Jones 
stood,  and  Hyatt  said,  carelessly  : 

"  It's  a  pity  he  wouldn't  leave  the  keys  with 
you.  That  Manson  is  so  stubborn  that  all  hopes 
of  obtaining  access  to  the  keys  through  him 
would  be  useless.  We  may  as  well  give  up  the 
property  at  once.  It's  a  fine  independence— and 
Lucy— ah,  she  ought  to  be  rich  !  Well,  well,  it 
can't  be  helped." 

"  If  the  keys  had  been  left  with  you,"  added 
Gorman,  "  we  might  have  just  searched  quietly, 
to  be  sure  the  documents  were  there,  and  then 
have  demanded  them  of  Conner." 

"  Then  you  didn't  mean  to  take  the  deeds 
away  ?"  demanded  the  farmer,  eagerly. 

"Take  them  away!  My  good  fellow,  where 
would  your  fancy  lead  to !  No,  no,  only  let  me 
be  assured  they  are'  in  his  possession,  and  all 
the  rest  will  be  easy  enough.  Of  course  you 
will  come  forward  and  demand  them  in  the 
name  of  the  law.  Now,  he  might  deny  their  ex- 
istence ;  but,  after  you  have  seen  them  with 
myself  and  Hyatt  for  witnesses,  this  denial 
would  not  answer." 

"  So  all  we  want  is  a  sight  of  the  deeds  ?" 

"  That  is  all." 

"  But  as  you  never  have  the  keys,"  cried 
Hyatt,  "what's  the  use  of  talking  about  it, 
especially  as  neither  of  us  are  good  friends  with 
Manson  ?  He  would  not  oblige  us  now,  though 
our  object  is  perfectly  honorable  and  very  im- 
portant." 

"  Perhaps  I  should  not  ask  him,"  saici  the 
farmer,  with  a  shrewd  smile,  which  the  darkness 
concealed.    "  If  I  once  make  up  my  mind  to  do 


TtOCK  tttlN;  OR,  THE  DAVOHTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


33 


the  thing,  it  could  be  done  without  John  Man- 
son's  leave." 

It  required  all  Gorman's  self-control  to  sub- 
due his  exultation  of  heart  as  these  words  were 
uttered;  but  a  gleam  or  two  flashing  beneath 
his  half-closed  eyelids,  as  the  moonlight  fell 
upon  him,  was  all  that  he  suffered  to  appear  of 
the  triumph  which  he  felt. 

Hyatt's  face  was  turned  away,  but  there  was 
a  look  of  cunning  upon  it,  which  might  have 
astonishad  Gorman  had  he  discovered  its  mean- 
ing, an*  made  him  wonder  if  the  man  was  only 
his  tool  in  these  knaveries." 

"  Come  over  to  the  tavern  with  us,  Jones,"  he 
said ;  "  we'll  have  a  little  drink  or  so,  and  you 
and  Mr.  Gorman  can  talk  the  matter  over  more 
clearly — come  along." 

The  old  man  demurred  a  little,  but  he  could 
not  resist  the  influence  which  Hyatt  had  ac- 
quired over  him,  so  he  allowed  him  to  pull  him 
down  to  the  shore,  while  Gorman  walked  on  in 
advance,  lost  in  deep  thought. 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  FEW  days  passed,  and  still  old  Jones'  scru- 
ples in  regard  to  searching  his  employer's  pa- 
pers had  not  given  ground,  and  the  men  began 
to  be  doubtful  whether  the  principles  of  honesty 
which  had  guided  him  through  life  would  not 
prove  too  strong  for  their  sophistries  and  art- 
ful persuasions. 

Gorman  was  perfectly  furious  at  the  delay, 
and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  Hyatt  could  keep 
him  from  committing  some  rash  act  that  would 
have  compromised  them  all. 

Every  day  was  of  vital  importance  to  him 
now  ;  he  could  not  teU  when  the  master  himself 
might'  return,  and  if  he  once  met  that  old  man, 
then  there  was  an  end  to  all  Gorman's  hopes  ; 
he  would  have  plotted,  schemed  and  rendered 
himself  a  criminal  for  nothing. 

He  hardly  left  his  room  now ;  the  excuse  of 
illness  which  he  gave  did  not  appear  without 
reason,  for  the  constant  strain  upon  his  mind, 
and  the  war  of  feeling  going  on  within,  told 
plainly  in  his  face. 

Hyatt  and  his  comrades  appeared  to  find  con- 
stant occupation,  and  not  the  slightest  remark 
had  been  occasioned  in  the  neighborhood.  Even 
the  appearance  of  the  stranger  excited  no  sur- 

Erise,  as  he  came  in  their  company,  and  Hyatt 
ad,  with  his  usual  craft,  given  a  plausible  rea- 
son for  his  stay. 

But  the  will,  the  will !  Time  was  gliding  on, 
and  he  was  no  nearer  the  accomplishment  of  his 
purpose.  He  would  not  be  baffled  in  that  way 
— he  swore  it  with  a  terrible  oath — he  repeated 
it  again  and  again.  He  regretted  now  that  he 
had  not  at  least  finished  his  murderous  work 
xnat  stormy  night— he  would  have  been  rejoiced 
to  know  that  the  old  man  was  dead. 

While  he  was  meditating  these  things  in  his 
room,  or  wandering  up  and  down  in  the  sohtude 
of  the  forest,  maddened  by  the  idea  that  the 
toils  laid  for  others  had  gathered  in  a  snare 
about  himself,  and  that  he  was  entrapped  in  his 
own  meshes,  young  Conner  was  preparing  for  a 
hasty  journey. 

Some  business  had  to  be  transacted  at  a  town 
several  days'  journey  down  the  river,  and  he 
hoped  that  by  the  time  he  was  ready  to  return, 
his  father  would  have  arrived  at  the  place  on 
bis  way  back. 


He  went  himself  to  announce  this  journey  to 
the  invalid,  to  whom  he  had  shown  much  kind- 
ness, but  the  old  man  was  so  greatly  agitated 
that  for  some  time  he  could  not  oe  quieted. 

"  Going  1"  he  exclaimed,  raising  himself  on 
his  pillows;  "going!  no,  no,  young  master — 
wait,  only  wait  till  he  comes." 

"  I  would  if  it  were  possible,"  Conner  replied ; 
"  but  if  I  don't  go,  it  will  occasion  a  heavy  loss 
to  my  father,  and  just  now  we  cannot  well  afford 
it." 

"  He  will  not  need  it,"  muttered  the  old  man, 
"with  aU  those  broad  lands  he  will  not  need 
it." 

Conner  did  not  comprehend  his  w«rds,  of 
course,  supposing  only  that  they  applied  to  the 
possessions  about  them. 

"I  will  make  every  arrangement  for  your 
comfort,"  he  said;  "you  shall  not  bo  neglect- 
ed." 

"  My  comfort  is  nothing,"  he  moaned;  "it's 
not  that  I'm  thinking  of." 

"  I  will  have  John  Manson,  that  young  man 
you  liked  so  much,  stay  with  you,"  continued 
Gerald  ;  "  he  has  very  little  to  do  now,  and  if 
he  is  with  you,  I  shall  feel  perfectly  easy." 

"  You're  very  kind  to  the  old  man,"  he  said, 
"  very  Mnd  I  It's  in  the  blood— oh,  I'm  not  mis- 
taken, I  am  not." 

Conner  was  growing  accustomed  to  those 
strong  words  which  he  so  often  repeated,  but 
his  many  mysterious  allusions  always  perplexed 
him. 

"I  cannot  understand  what  you  mean,"  he 
said ;  "  are  you  sure  that  it  would  not  be  better 
to  talk  openly  with  me  before  I  go  away  ?" 

"  I  swore  an  oath  !"  cried  the  old  man,  begin- 
ning to  tremble  with  excitement;  "I  must  do 
this  work  just  as  I  promised  him— I  can't  tell 
you,  I  can't." 

"  Then  you  must  keep  yourself  quiet  as  possi- 
ble," returned  Conner;  "don't  think  about 
your  business,  whatever  it  may  be.  My  father 
will  probably  accompany  me  back,  then  you  can 
speak  freely." 

"Yes,  then,  then  I  Bring  him  back— oh,  if 
you  only  knew— but  I  can't  teU  you— not  a  word 
until  I  finow  it  is  indeed  himself— that  was  the 
master's  order,  and  I  swore  an  oath  to  obey." 

He  lay  back  on  the  pillows,  faint  and  ex- 
hausted, and  Conner  tried  to  turn  his  attention 
to  other  things,  for  any  allusion  to  the  mysteri- 
ous business  which  had  brought  him  there  al- 
ways left  him  so  feverish  and  excited,  that  ho 
dreaded  its  effect  upon  him  in  his  weakened 
state. 

That  afternoon,  Conner  took  his  departure 
From  the  window  of  the  little  inn,  Gorman  and 
Hyatt  watched  the  boat  pass  down  the  river, 
rowed  by  two  stout  men.  They  did  not  speak 
for  several  minutes  after  it  had  disappeared. 
When  it  melted  away  in  the  blue  distance,  they 
turned  and  looked  at  each  other  till  Hyatt's 
eyes  fell  under  the  strange  look  in  those  of  his 
companion. 

"His  father  will  come  back  with  him,"  were 
the  first  words  Gorman  spoke ;  "  to-night,  every- 
thing must  be  settled." 

"I  will  see  Jones  at  once,"  Hyatt  said;  "I 
know  he  is  not  at  work  to-day,  so  I  shall  find  him 
at  home." 

He  turned  to  leave  the  room,  but  Gorman  laid 
a  hand  upon  his  arm. 


34 


BOOK  BTIIN;   OH,  THE  DAnQHTEE  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


"One  moment,"  he  whispered;  "if  he  will 
not  consent  we  will  wait  no  longer— remember 
that." 

"I  know;  I  think  we  can  find  means  to  get 
into  the  house,"  he  said,  a  little  uneasily. 

"  If  the  will  cannot  be  discovered,"  continued 
Gorman,  in  the  same  low,  unnatural  tone, 
"those  men  when  they  come  back,  they  must 
find  only  a  corpse  up  in  that  room— you  under- 
stand ?" 

Hyatt  shrunk  at  those  words ;  he  was  a  cow- 
ard in  his  villainy,  very  unlike  the  bold  man  to 
whose  aid  he  had  lent  himself. 

"  That's  a  serious  business,"  he  muttered. 

"Bahl  Don't  old  men  die  suddenly?- he 
may  have  had  a  fit— any  reason  !  Are  you  going 
to  desert  me  now  ?  Beraember  the  money — you 
will  be  a  rich  man  the  hour  I  find  that  will,  or 
haar  of  his  death." 

Hyatt's  greed  overcame  his  cowardice,  and 
before  they  separated  he  had  bound  himself  by 
an  oath  to  carry  out  the  other's  wishes. 

"  I  will  go  and  find  Jones  now,"  he  said;  "I 
don't  despair  of  fetching  him  round." 

"Bring  him  over  here  with  you,"  returned 
Gorman ;  "  we  will  both  talk  to  him." 

"  All  right ;  I  have  a  good  excuse,"  said  Hy- 
att;  "I  want  his  opinion  about  some  of  that 
lumber,  so  come  he  shall ;  and  once  here  we 
won't  let  him  off  until  we  have  his  promise." 

Hyatt  took  the  boat  and  went  over  to  the 
island.  As  he  approached  the  log  house  he  saw 
Lucy  sitting  on  the  doorstep  occupied  with  her 
needlework.  She  looked  up  as  he  drew  near, 
and  when  she  saw  who  it  was,  an  expression  of 
mingled  aversion  and  terror  shot  over  her  face. 
Hyatt  caught  the  glance  and  ground  his  teeth 
between  his  lips. 

"  If  ever  I  get  you  in  my  power  you  shall  pay 
for  these  acts  !"  he  thought,  then  composing  his 
face  he  walked  up  to  her,  saying,  in  his  silky 
voice :  *'  You  look  as  quiet  as  a  bird  in  her  nest, 
Miss  Lucy." 

She  only  bowed— her  father's  commands  had 
been  that  she  should  treat  him  with  civility,  but 
just  then  she  could  not  have  spoken  pleasantly, 
no  matter  what  the  consequences  might  be. 

"  Is  your  father  at  home  ?"  he  asked. 

"  He  is  out  in  the  wood-house,"  she  replied, 
coldly ;  "  he  is  busy  chopping  wood." 

"I  want  him  to  go  across  the  river  and  give 
me  a  little  advice  about  that  raft,"  he  said, 
pleasantly;  "I  would  rather  have  his  opinion 
than  any  one  of  my  partners." 

"You  will  find  him  there,"  she  answered, 
]  shortly. 

He  stood  looking  at  her,  but  she  went  on  with 
her  work  without  even  raising  her  eyes. 

"  You  cannot  forgive  me  ?"  he  said ;  "  I  am 
sorry  I  have  offended  you  so  deeply,  Miss  Lucy." 

"  We  will  not  talk  about  that,  if  you  please, 
Mr.  Hyatt,"  she  replied.  "  It  can  do  no  good  to 
rake  up  unpleasant  subjects." 

"KI  could  do  anything  to  make  you  think 
more  kindly  of  me,"  he  went  on,  sadly.  "  I 
would  give  my  life  only  to  have  your  friendship 
and  esteem." 

"  I  will  tell  father  you  are  waiting  to  see  him," 
sh»  said,  rising  quickly.  Her  breast  was  too  full 
of  bitterness  that  day  to  endure  his  presence. 
Only  that  morning  her  father  had  reproached 
her  for  her  disobedience,  and  spoken  so  harshly 
of  her  lover,  that  she  could  not  remain  quiet  in 


the  society  of  the  man  who  had  been  the  origin 
of  all  her  trouble. 

"  You  wish  to  avoid  me,"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  you 
detest  me  so  utterly  that  you  cannot  bear  even 
to  see  me." 

"  You  form  your  own  conclusions,"  was  her 
answer. 

"  They  are  forced  upon  me,"  he  replied.  "  I 
should  be  blind  indeed  not  to  see  it.'*" 

"  Please  do  not  talk  in  that  way,  Mr.  Hyatt," 
she  said,  beseechingly ;  "it  is  very  unpleasant 
to  me." 

"I  will  relieve  you  of  my  presence,  Lucy; 
some  day  you  will  know  me  better  and  judge  me 
less  harshly." 

She  moved  away  without  making  any  answer, 
opened  the  back  door,  and  called  : 

"  Father,  Mr.  Hyatt  wishes  to  see  you." 

The  old  man  stuck  his  axe  into  the  log  he  had 
been  chopping  and  entered  the  house,  his  face 
wearing  that  doubtful,  troubled  look  which  had 
become  so  common  to  him  of  late— a  look  utterly 
unlike  the  frank,  cheerful  expression  which  had 
formerly  characterized  his  features. 

He  answered  Hyatt's  greeting  in  the  same  pe- 
culiar way  ;  one  felt  that  in  his  heart  he  shrunk 
from  the  man,  but  yet  was  unable  to  withstand 
the  influence  he  had  acquired  over  him. 

When  Hyatt  told  him  his  errand  he  hesitated 
a  little  at  first,  but  finally  consented  to  go. 

"I  hain't  got  much  to  do,  that's  a  fact,"  he 
said ;  "  wal,  yes,  I  guess  I'll  go." 

"Will  you  be  home  to  tea,  father?"  Lucy 
asked. 

"  Oh,  sartin  ;  long  before.    Good-by,  darter." 

He  went  up  and  kissed  her  with  something  of 
his  old  manner,  as  if  he  wished  to  make  amends 
for  his  harshness  of  the  morning.  Lucy's  eyes 
filled  with  tears  at  the  caress  ;  she  was  so  trou- 
bled and  anxious  that  little  things  affected  her 
now  more  than  they  had  formerly  done,  and  she 
was  growing  so  morbidly  sensitive  that  no  change 
in  the  manner  of  the  persons  about  her  was  dis- 
regarded. 

She  answered  Hyatt's  parting  words  with  per- 
fect civility,  but  with  sucn  coldness  that  he  bit 
his  lip  angrily,  while  a  hot  flush  shot  up  to  his 
very  forehead. 

"  Now  you  see  we  must  make  up  our  minds  at 
once,  Jones,"  he  said,  as  they  rowed  across  the 
river.  "  If  anything  is  to  be  done  about  hunt- 
ing up  those  papers  of  yours,  it  must  be  while 
the  young  chap  is  away." 

Jones  moved  uneasily  in  his  seat. 

"  Somehow  I  can't  make  up  my  mirud  to  do  it," 
he  said;  "it  doesn't  seem  honest  to  unlock  a 
man's  chest  and  pry  among  his  papers,  even  for 
what's  your  own." 

"  I  can't  understand  such  scruples,"  replied 
Hyatt.  "  I  hope  I'm  as  honest  as  most  men  ; 
but  I  shouldtft  hesitate  about  searching  for 
what  would  prove  my  title  to  a  handsome  prop- 
erty." 

"  It  does  seem  a  little  hard  that  a  man  should 
be  cheated  out  of  what's  his  own,"  he  said. 

"You  hear  Mr.  Gorman  talk,"  said  H;^att; 
"he's  a  sharp,  clear-headed  lawyer;  it  isn't 
likely  he'd  advise  you  to  do  anything  that  would 
get  you  into  trouble." 

"  I  know  he  talks  very  smooth,  and  it  may  be 
all  right,"  rephed  Jones,  "  but  I  hate  to  do  it. 
Anyhow,  he  must  expect  to  be  pretty  well  paid 


BOOK  BXTm;   OR,  THE  DAUGBTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


33 


II  I  j.',ot  anything;  it  ain't  likely  a  man's  going 
10  hi'lp  a  stranger  for  nothin'." 

"  He  is  my  friend,"  said  Hyatt ;  "  he  will  do 
anything  for  me ;  and  he  wants  to  see  you  righted 
because  he  knows  I  love  your  daughter."     _. 

"Yes,  yes;  but  I  don  t  like  to  do  it,"  said 
Jones,  thoughtfully  shaking  his  head.  "  It  ain't 
like  anything  I  was  ever  at  afore." 

Hyatt  ceased  talking  about  the  matter,  and 
left  him  to  his  own  reflections  until  they  reached 
the  tavern. 

Once  made  to  listen  to  Gorman's  seductive  ar- 
guments, the  foolish  old  man  gradually  forgot 
his  scruples,  and  when  they  described  to  him 
how  happy  he  might  make  his  daughter  when 
in  possession  of  tne  property  of  which  he  had 
been  defrauded,  he  could  not  resist  the  flatter- 
ing hopes. 

"  You  see,"  Gorman  said,  "  this  Conner  never 
will  let  the  matter  come  to  a  trial.  When  he 
finds  that  you  have  a  knowledge  of  the  matter 
and  copies  of  the  papers,  he  will  compromise 
the  affair  and  pay  you  down  a  handsome  sum  to 
settle  it." 

"  And,"  added  Hyatt,  "  I  can  show  you  how  to 
invest  that  money  bo  as  to  double  it  in  five 
years." 

They  stood  one  on  each  side  of  the  old  man, 
and  urged  their  scheme  upon  his  ignorant  mind 
till  it  was  fairly  bewildered,  and  all  his  old  ideas 
of  right  and  wrong  quite  staggered. 

"  Anyhow,  I  must  go  home  now,"  he  said,  at 
last. 

"  But  the  matter  must  be  decided  at  once,"  re- 
turned Gorman.  "I  am  anxious  to  oblige  you  for 
the  sake  of  my  friend  " — one  could  see  how  his 
haughty  lips  hated  to  frame  the  word— "but  I 
cannot  remain  here  much  longer." 

"  Say  it's  a  bargain,"  Jones !"  cried  Hyatt. 
"  Come,  man,  have  courage  enough  to  claim 
your  rights— do !" 

"  Come  down  to  the  boat-house  this  evening," 
said  Jones,  suddenly,  and,  taking  an  abrupt 
leave,  he  hurried  away. 

" It's  all  right  now,"  exclaimed  Hyatt;  "  he'll 
do  it  this  time." 

"  There  has  been  delay  enough,  in  all  con- 
science," returned  Gorman;  "if  this  does  not 
succeed— but  it  shall— by  Heaven,  it  shall !" 

He  went  away  to  his  own  room,  and  Hyatt 
strolled  out  of  the  house. 

"  After  all,  you  are  more  my  dupe  than  I 
yours,"  he  muttered,  with  an  unpleasant  laugh. 
"  I  wonder  how  you  will  look  when  you  find  why 
I  was  so  anxious  to  get  into  that  room  ?  I  must 
find  Winter  and  the  rest  of  the  boys— this  time 
it  really  looks  as  if  we  were  near  success." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

It  might  have  been  the  next  day  but  one  after 
this  interview  when  Hyatt  rowed  up  the  river, 
while  its  waters  were  all  gold  and  crimson  with 
the  reflection  of  a  golden  sunset,  taking  with 
him  his  gun,  as  if  in  search  of  belated  ducks. 

But  once  beyond  all  danger  of  detection,  he 
made  straight  for  the  cliff  they  called  Rock  Ruin, 
landed  his  boat,  and  threaded  his  way  round  the 
base  of  the  peak  to  the  opposite  side. 

The  man  seemed  familiar  with  the  place,  wild 
and  desolate  as  it  was,  for  making  his  way  cau- 
tiously among  the  rocks  that  cumbered  the  earth 
everywhere  ;  he  lifted  a  heavy  pine  bough  that 


concealed  a  rent  in  the  wall  and  made  his  waj 
into  a  small  cavern,  which  was  completely  dark, 
save  a  single  gleam  of  light  tliat  fell  from  som'i 
crevice  above  him  and  struck  upon  what  seemed 
a  sort  of  natural  staircase  in  the  rock. 

He  went  stumbling  along,  trying  to  find  hia 
way  up  the  ascent ;  but  at  length,  when  some 
imprudent  movement  sent  a  shower  of  loose 
stones  rattling  about  him,  he  called  out  in  a 
voice  of  mingled  rage  and  fear  : 

"  Hello,  there  !  Do  you  want  me  to  break  my 
neck  in  this  dark  hole  ?  Why  the  deuce  don't 
you  bring  a  light  ?— you  hoard  me  whistle." 

"  Shut  up  !"  said  a  voice  from  the  top  of  the 
rocks,  while  a  ruddy  gleam  shot  downward  over 
the  rugged  steep,  and  the  pale  countenance  of 
the  man  who  had  sprung  to  a  point  higher  up, 
and  with  his  hands  clinging  to  a  vine  that  had 
forced  itself  through  an  opening  in  the  side,  was 
trembling  from  hand  to  foot. 

"  Why,  confound  it,  man  !  with  this  thunder- 
ing of  the  stones  and  shouting  you  might  be 
heard  a  mile  off!  Suppose  anybody  was  going 
down  the  river?" 

"  Hold  the  light  nearer,  I  say— nearer  yet.  I 
never  attempted  this  infernal  pass  in  the  dark 
before.  Come  down,  I  say,  and  give  me  your 
hand!" 

"  There,"  cried  the  other,  with  a  compassion- 
ating sneer,  descending  a  step  or  two  and  reach- 
ing forth  his  hand,  which  Hyatt  eagerly  grasped. 
"  Why,  how  the  fellow  shakes  !  and  all  because 
a  few  stones  have  rattled  down  into  the  cave. 
Come,  pluck  up  courage  now ;  you  were  never 
born  to  break  your  own  neck,  that's  certain." 

Hyatt  made  no  answer,  but  sprang  upward 
with  a  desperate  leap  and  stood  upon  the  plat- 
form with  nis  jeering  friend,  who  held  the  light 
to  his  face  and  chuckled  softly  at  its  whiteness. 

"  Oh,  you  city  fellows  are  cowards,  after  all !" 
he  said  ;  "  good  for  nothing  except  to  plot  things 
that  bolder  men  must  carry  out.  Come  on— 
Blake  and  Harrison  are  both  in  there." 

With  these  contemptuous  words  the  man  crept 
through  the  narrow  opening  and  a  small  recess, 
and  another  aperture,  and  emerged  into  a  large 
chamber,  followed  by  Hyatt. 

The  place  looked  fairly  like  a  room  in  some 
ruined  tower,  except  that  the  walls  were  cov- 
ered with  stalactites  of  the  most  fanciful  forms, 
through  which  the  torchlight  flitted  like  moon- 
beanis.  Here  the  other  two  men  sat  upon  a 
block  of  stone  that  had  fallen  from  overhead. 
They  were  playing  cards  by  the  light  of  a  pine 
knot,  but  they  left  their  game  as  Hyatt  and  the 
other  entered,  and  while  one  shuflSed  the  cards 
idly  in  his  hands,  the  other  took  his  handker- 
chief from  a  stone  where  he  had  laid  it,  and 
passing  it  across  his  face  gave  it  a  flirt,  which 
extinguished  the  lamp  held  by  Hyatt's  guide. 

"  Now  don't  look  crusty  about  it,  old  boy,"  he 
said,  quietly  placing  the  kerchief  in  his  pocket. 
"  We  needn't  kindle  a  beacon  for  any  straggler 
that  happens  to  stray  by  in  a  boat  or  come  down 
from  the  woods.  Come,  sit  down,  these  pine 
knots  give  light  enough  for  us  to  talk  by." 

"  Well,  Hyatt,"  asked  Smith,  sitting  down  near 
the  others,  "what  news  is  stirring?  Just  re- 
member, we  have  been  two  days  cam{3ing  out  in 
the  woods  by  way  of  making  people  think  we  had 
occupation." 

"  Are  you  ready  f*P  business?"  asked  Blake. 


ROCKBTIIN:   OB,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


*'  I  think  we  have  been  waiting  long  enough  for 
this  one  job." 

"  Yes,'^  said  the  third,  "  and  so  do  I.  Oamp- 
ing  out  is  all  very  well,  but  I  don't  want  to  spend 
my  natural  life  at  it." 

"  Well,  well,  you  won't  have  to  wait  much  long- 
er," replied  Hyatt,  as  soon  as  he  had  found  suf- 
ficient breath,  and  they  gave  him  an  opppor- 
tunity  to  answer  their  questions. 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  they  all  asked  atones. 

"  Have  you  got  your  boat  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  And  you've  all  got  your  pistols  and  knives, 
if  anything  did  happen?" 

The  older  of  the  men  smiled  and  thrust  his 
band  into  his  bosom  with  a  gesture  so  signifi- 
cant that  words  would  have  been  superfluous. 

"What  time  is  it  now?"  asked  Hyatt,  coolly 
proceeding  to  light  a  cigar,  as  if  he  had  a  pleas- 
ure in  irritating  by  way  of  return  for  the  laugh 
that  had  been  raised  against  him. 

Harrison  drew  a  watch  from  his  pocket,  and 
bending  toward  the  lantern  pronounced  the 
hour  to  be  almost  nine  o'clock. 

"  It  is  earlier  than  I  thought,"  said  Hyatt, 

Euffing  out  a  cloud  of  smoke.    "  So  much  the 
etter ;  we  shall  have  more  time  to  arrange  our 
plans." 

"  Then  it  really  comes  off  to-night  ?"  said  the 
elder,  and  his  small  gray  eyes  kindled  up  with 
eagerness. 

"Within  two  hours,  if  we  don't  break  our 
necks  in  getting  down  from  this  black  devil's 
nest,"  replied  Hyatt. 

"  Good,  good,"  pronounced  the  two  younger 
men. 

"But  you  needn't  abuse  the  place,"  said 
Smith ;  "  it  has  served  us  many  a  good  turn, 
and  will  yet." 

"  No  doubt  of  that,  and  there's  no  danger  of 
its  being  discovered ;  nevertheless,  I  think  I 
shall  employ  a  rope-ladder  the  next  time  we 
have  business  likely  to  bring  us  in  this  region." 

"Oh,  a  spice  of  danger  adds  zest  to  the  thing," 
returned  Smith  ;  ''there's  a  sort  of  satisfaction 
in  riskmg  one's  neck." 

"  You  are  the  last  man  who  has  a  right  to  cheat 
the  hangman  in  that  way  1"  retorted  Hyatt,  sar- 
castically. 

"  Like  enough,"  replied  the  other,  good  na- 
turedly,  joining  in  the  laugh  that  rose  against 
him.  "  As  for  you,  you  learned  craft  and  policy 
enough  in  your  den  at  the  lawyer's  office  to  teach 
half  a  dozen  rough,  honest  rogues  like  me." 

This  gentle  compliment  brought  a  well-pleased 
and  subtle  smile  to  Hyatt's  lip. 

"You  shall  find  that  I  have  not  mismanaged 
the  affair  in  hand,"  he  said,  "  though  it  has 
been  a  troublesome  one  enough.  Everything 
is  ready ;  you  have  but  to  row  over  and  help 
yourselves,  I  can  tell  you,  and  that  without  the 
aid  of  pistols  and  crowbar." 

Harrison  threw  down  the  cards,  which  he  had 
been  carelessly  shuffling  all  the  time,  and  roused 
himself  to  a  new  interest  in  the  conversation. 

"  Now  this  looks  like  earnest,"  he  said.  "  If 
we  are  to  commence  operations  at  once  I  sha'n't 
think  this  headwork  of  Hyatt's  so  bad  after  all. 
For  my  part,  I  was  about  giving  up  the  job  alto- 
gether. These  little  beauties,"  and  he  pointed 
to  the  cards,  "  area  safer  way  of  making  money, 
and  I  prefer  civilization  to  these  woods,  unless 


I,  too,  could  find  a  cabin  with  a  pretty  girl  in  it 
to  make  love  to." 

"  So  you  have  been  spying  after  mo  ?"  answered 
Hyatt,  while  a  faint  red  shot  over  his  forehead. 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  the  other,  with  great  cool- 
ness. "  But  while  we  were  at  the  tavern  I  heard 
of  your  conquest  and  of  John  Manson's  jealousy. 
It  is  astonishing  how  a  little  innocent  country 
life  sharpens  one's  appetite  for  this  sort  of  game. 
I  had  half  a  mind  to  try  my  own  luck  with  the 
pretty  creature." 

"  Oh,  you  shut  up !"  interrupted  Smith,  with  a 
contemptuous  sneer.     "  Let  us  to  business." 

"  So  I  say,"  joined  in  Blake.  "What  have  we 
to  do  with  country  girls,  except  when  they  can 
be  used  as  tools  to  the  trade  ?' 

"I  should  think  we  had  trifled  away  enough 
time,"  said  Hyatt,  dryljr. 

"Well,  now*  for  the  job  in  hand,"  exclaimed 
the  others,  and  the  three  men  drew  round  Hy- 
att and  listened  to  the  plan  he  had  arranged 
with  keen  interest.  As  he  proceeded,  exclama- 
tions of  warm  approval,  sometimes  in  the  form 
of  an  oath,  broke  from  the  listeners,  and  even 
in  the  dim  li^ht  their  faces  might  be  seen  to  kin- 
dle up  with  fierce  expectation. 

When  he  concluded  there  was  a  slight  bustle 
of  preparation.  Each  of  the  party  examined 
his  firearms,  and  a  sterner  expression  lay  upon 
every  countenance  as  it  was  revealed  in  the 
gloom. 

A  moment  after  and  the  four  men  were  creep- 
ing down  the  descent  by  the  light  of  a  lantern 
which  Smith,  who  came  last,  carried  in  his  hand. 

Very  soon  there  was  a  sound  of  muffled  oars 
beating  out  from  the  river,  and  through  the 
gloom  the  two  boats  could  be  seen  dimly  gliding 
swiftly  down  the  current. 

CHAPTEB  XV. 

On  the  same  evening  Jones  was  wandering 
like  an  unquiet  spirit  about  his  little  cabin.  For 
half  an  hour  he  sat  on  the  river's  brink,  shaded 
by  a  clump  of  hazel  bushes,  and  watcliing  his 
daughter  with  an  eager,  cat-like  gaze.  Then  he 
left  his  shelter,  stole  softly  along  the  garden 
fence,  and  still  continued  his  guard. 

At  length  some  manifestations  of  unrest  seem- 
ed visible  in  the  sweet  girl  who  sat  so  beautiful 
and  angol-like  by  the  open  window.  As  the 
moon  rose  she  began  to  exhibit  signs  of  keen 
expectation.  She  would  arise  and  walk  about 
the  room,  then  steal  back  to  the  window,  and 
lean  out  with  her  head  bent  on  one  side,  as  if 
her  ear  thirsted  for  the  sound  of  a  footstep 
crossing  the  turf.  But  all  was  still,  and  at  length 
she  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  leaning  her 
cheek  on  the  palm  of  her  hand,  fell  into  an  at- 
titude of  languid  disappointment. 

The  moon  was  up  broad  and  full,  flooding  the 
sweep  of  greensward,  Lucy's  little  flower  gar- 
den, and  the  beautiful  river,  with  a  glory  that 
seemed  half  bora  of  the  dew,  so  bright  and  fra- 
grant was  the  herbage. 

It  was  past  the  hour  when  Manson  had  prom- 
ised to  be  on  the  river's  bank.  Yet  with  all  her 
anxious  watching  no  shadow  or  sign  of  his  pres- 
ence could  be  detected  on  the  shore.  Ho  would 
not  come  to  the  house,  she  was  certain  of  that, 
but  he  knew  that  her  father  would  be  absent 
that  evening,  for  slie  had  sent  him  word,  and  it 
was  very  singular  that  he  had  not  kept  his  prom- 
ise.   These  thoughts  were  enough  to  make  the 


ROCKBXIIN;   OR,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


37 


young  girl  sad,  combined  as  they  were  with 
fears  and  apprehensions  of  another  kind,  so  she 
fell  into  the  attitude  we  have  described,  and 
tears  stole  softly  down  her  cheek.  It  seemed  as 
if  everything  she  had-  ever  loved  was  deserting 
her  that  evening. 

Her  fattier  saw  all  this,  and  he,  too,  was  dis- 
satisfied, but  there  was  excitement  and  anger 
blended  with  his  disappointment ;  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  was  angry  with  his  child  for 
not  having  acted  counter  to  his  orders.  That 
night  she  was  to  have  been  the  decoy  bird  to 
draw  young  Manson  away  from  the  Mansion 
house.  Two  days  before  Jones  had  spoken 
openly  of  his  intended  absence  that  night,  fully 
persuaded  that  Manson  would  never  allow  his 
opportunity  for  an  interview  with  his  daughter 
to  pass  unimproved.  But  now  the  evening  was 
drawing  to  a  close.  Eight,  nine,  ten  o'clock 
sounded  from  the  tall  clock  in  its  heavy  walnut 
wood  case,  and  still  his  daughter  sat  there  mo- 
tionless and  weeping,  but  so  silent  that  he  could 
not  detect  her  grief. 

Now  the  hour  had  come,  and  at  all  risks  he 
must  depart.  Cautiousljrand  like  a  thief,  the 
old  man  stole  from  his  home,  and  striking  into 
the  forest  path,  walked  toward  the  great  house. 
"We  believe  his  errand  was  a  just  one— that  the 
expedition  on  which  he  was  bent  might  be  pro- 
claimed before  men  and  angels  without  a  blush, 
and  yet  the  old  man  started  at  each  sound  and 
held"  his  breath  with  a  thrill  of  guilty  fear  if  a 
rabbit  started  in  its  thicket,  or  a  bird  was  dis- 
turbed for  an  instant  in  the  tree  boughs  over  his 
head.  The  old  man's  head  had  been  led  astray, 
but  his  heart,  that  fresh,  honest  heart,  was  right 
all  the  time,  and  it  kept  warning  him  back  at 
every  stop,  as  if  it  foretold  how  much  misery 
that  night's  work  would  bring  on  him  and  his. 
But  the  head  was  wilful  in  its  newly  acquired 
ideas,  and  so  he  walked  oh  to  meet  the  destiny 
he  was  preparing  for  himself. 

There  was  a  broad  lawn  before  the  house,  and 
a  magnificent  chestnut  shaded  the  front  door. 
The  lawn  was  dotted  with  flowering  shrubs,  and 
eloped  so  gently  into  the  glowing  beds  of  a 
flower  garden,  that  one  scarcely  knew  where 
the  verdure  and  bloom  were  first  blended  to- 
gether. 

As  Jones  issued  from  the  woods  his  eyes  fell 
upon  the  beautiful  scone.  The  old  house,  with  its 
gables,  its  chimneys  and  broad  porches  throw- 
ing down  a  massive  shadow  on  the  picturesque 
garden  through  the  silver  moonlight,  till  the 
flower  beds  were  lithographod,  as  it  were,  with 
another  old  building,  softened  and  idealized  to 
a  degree  of  dream  -  like  beauty  that  no  pencil 
could  have  approached. 

As  the  old  man  gazed  on  this  scene,  so  beau- 
tiful and  tranquil,  his  heart  misgave  him.  The 
entire  stillness  was  oppressive  ;  it  seemed  to 
bring  him  nearer  to  the  Almighty  than  he  had 
ever  been  before.  He  felt  as  if  the  shadow  of 
some  great  crime  had  crept  between  his  soul 
and  the  stars  that  were  looking  down  upon  him. 
Filled  with  these  sensations,  the  old  man  paused 
and  began  to  meditate.  What  had  seemed  easy 
and  right  in  the  broad  daytime,  with  the  bustle 
of  life  around  him,  and  tbo  tempter  by  his  side, 
took  a  more  and  more  important  asp'ect  in  the 
still  night,  when  he  was  left  alone  with  the  good 
and  his  natural  self.  He  pondered,  hesitated, 
and  turned  to  retrace  his  steps,  thinking  of  his 


daughter  as  of  an  angel  sitting  by  the  portals  oi 
heaven,  ready  to  welcome  him  back  with  such  a 
smile  as  he  had  often  worshiped  on  her  mother's 
lip. 

Filled  with  these  bitter  thoughta,  the  old  man 
turned  to  obey  his  good  angel,  and  walked  swift- 
ly forward,  eager  to  reach  the  shelter  of  his  own 
roof.  But  scarcely  had  he  advanced  a  hundred 
pacesHnto  the  woods  when  the  figures  of  two  men 

flided  through  the  trees  and  drew  close  to  him. 
ones  paused,  and  a  quick  revulsion  of  feeling 
made  his  breath  come  sharply,  for  a  beam  of 
moonlight  falling  through  the  branches  revealed 
the  face  of  Hyatt  and  Mr.  Gorman. 

"Punctual  always,"  said  Gorman,  fn  a  low 
voice.  •'  I  hope  you  got  the  keys  without  trou- 
ble." 

•'  Not  yet — I— I— that  is,  I  have  not  been  after 
them." 

"  What  1"  cried  Hyatt,  in  a  voice  of  alarm  ; 
"  surely  you  won't  let  this  opportunity  for  recov- 
ering your  property  pass  by  1" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  the  old  man,  doubt- 
ingly,  but  turning  down  a  by-path,  in  obedience 
to  Hyatt,  who  softly  insinuated  his  arm  under 
that  of  the  half- repentant  man  ;  "  I  am  begin- 
ning to  think  that  a  thing  which  must  bo  done 
secretly,  and  at  night,  ain't  jest  what  an  honest 
man  ort  to  lend  himself  to." 

"  Oh,  I  see  1"  returned  Gorman  ;  "  the  old  scru- 
ples coming  up— tho  European,  serf-like  feeling 
this  man  has  ground  into  ail  of  you  till  it  speaks 
louder  than  justice  itself.  You  are  mistaking 
all  this  for  conscience,  and  so  fling  away  the 
only  opportunity  that  will  ever  occur  of  regain- 
ing your  own  rights.  Why,  what  harm  can  there 
be  in  a  search  after  those  papers  ?  we  won't  take 
them  away." 

Jones  began  to  waver  again  ;  the  voice  of  the 
tempter  was  so  gentle,  his  sophistry  so  plausi- 
ble, that  it  seenaed  to  charm  away  all  the  scru- 
ples which  had  beset  him  a  moment  before  ;  be- 
sides, the  presence  of  these  men  destroyed  the 
holy  influence  which  the  profound  stillness  of 
night  is  calculated  to  produce. 

Gorman  saw  that  his  eloquence  was  taking 
effect,  and  was  urging  him  with  fresh  arguments 
when  the  sound  of  rapid  footsteps  approaching 
made  the  plotters  draw  close  to  the  trunk  of  a 
tree  to  conceal  themselves. 

"  It's  Manson  going  to  my  house,"  said  Jones, 
with  a  sort  of  feverous  bitterness  in  his  tone. 
"I  thought  that  he  would  not  let  me  stay 
from  home  one  hour  without  contriving  to  see 
Lucy !  I've  a  great  mind  to  follow  the  scoun- 
drel !" 

"  Secure  the  keys  first,"  insinuated  the  soft 
voice  at  his  side.  "  Why  throw  away  the  chance 
ot  a  fine  property  merely  to  chastise  a  man  who 
will  be  hero  after  to-night,  and  always  to  be 
found  ?" 

"  So  be  it ;  but  he'd  better  look  sharp  !"  said 
Jones,  following  the  tall  figure  of  Manson  with 
a  wrathful  glance  as  it  disappeared  in  the  shad- 
ow. "  Wait  here  for  ten  minutes ;  I'll  fetch  the 
keys  in  that  time  if  that  critter  hain't  took  'em 
with  him." 

"Which  all  the  saints  I  know  of  forbid  !"  said 
Hyatt,  seating  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  tree. 

Gorman  moved  restlessly  up  and  down,  with- 
out paying  the  least  attention  to  his  companion, 
and  did  not  appear  to  notice  even  when  hia 
name  was  called. 


BOCK  BUIN;   OB,  THE  DAUGHTEB  OE  THE  ISLAND. 


There,  in  the  sliado-w,  Hyatt  sat,  with  a  vicious 
smile  upon  his  lips,  as  he  watched  his  confeder- 
ate, and  once  he  muttered  to  himself: 

"  After  all,  you're  as  much  my  dupe  as  the 
other  !  Won't  you  rave,  my  would-be-lord,  when 
you  find  out  everything !" 

Then  he  sank  back  against  the  oak,  silent  and 
motionless,  and  but  for  the  sharp  glitter  of  his 
eyes,  that  seemed  to  cleft  the  darkness,  might 
have  been  incorporated  with  the  shadows  that 
blackened  everything  around  him. 

Meantime,  the  old  farmer,  now  fully  excited 
to  the  performance  of  his  errand,  passed  across 
the  lawn,  turned  an  angle  of  the  house,  and 
plunged  into  the  flowery  labyrinths  of  a  garden 
chat  required  both  caution  and  time  in  crossing, 
for  it  covered  a  broad  space  of  sloping  ground, 
and  the  moonlight  trembled  over  it  full  and 
clear,  until  the  most  tiny  blossom  seemed  bowed 
to  the  earth  with  a  weight  of  liquid  silver. 

Down  where  those  flowery  paths  lost  them- 
selves in  the  woods,  stood  a  little  house,  which 
had  originally  been  intended  as  a  place  for  be- 
stowing lumber  and  garden  tools,  but  which 
had  since  been  altered,  and  during  the  summer 
months,  when  the  house  was  very  full,  Manson 
and  his  mother  had  their  sleeping  apartments 
there. 

Up  to  this  little  house  came  the  old  man,  creep- 
ing through  the  carnations,  the  heliotrope  and 
verbenas  tangled  along  the  path,  with  the  feel- 
ings and  the  crouching  attitude  of  a  thief.  Twice 
he  lifted  his  hand  to  the  latch,  but  that  hand, 
hard  with  toil  and  brown  with  the  sun,  had  never 
been  raised  in  a  doubtful  act  before,  and  the 
tough  nerves  trembled  as  they  felt  the  cold 
iron. 

The  door  was  fastened.  It  seemed  at  first  a 
relief  to  the  old  man  ;  but  he  thought  of  those 
two  waiting  for  him  in-fbe  wood,  and  looked 
around  for  some  other  hieans  of  access.  There 
was  a  bedroom  at  the  end -the  single  lattice 
sheltered  by  a  cherry  tree.  Jones  stood  beneath 
the  tree,  whose  laden  branches  drooped  heavily 
around  him,  and  looking  up  through  the  clus- 
tering fruit,  saw  that  the  windows  were  partially 
open.  Planting  his  foot  in  a  fork  of  the  young 
tree  that  bent  beneath  his  weight,  he  Ufted  him- 
self upward,  flung  the  sash  open,  and  stepped 
into  the  room. 

Perhaps  five  minutes  elapsed ;  then  he  came 
through  the  window  again,  and  parting  the 
branches,  let  himself  cautiously  down,  without 
so  much  as  shaking  a  single  ruby  cluster  to  the 
earth,  or  breaking  a  twig  of  the  richly-fruited 
tree. 

When  he  came  into  the  moonlight  the  old 
man's  face  was  pale  as  death.  Grasping  two 
heavy  keys  in  his  hand,  he  fled  across  the  gar- 
den like  one  pursued  by  an  avenging  spirit. 
On  he  went,  trampling  through  the  flowers,  and 
feohng  at  each  step  as  if  the  iron  which  he 
grasped  so  tightly  was  burning  into  his  palm. 
He  neared  the  'house— then  his  speed  was 
checked;  and,  resuming  a  crouching  attitude, 
he  stole  around  a  corner  and  peered  up  at  the 
windows. 

The  house  was  in  darkness,  save  one  win- 
dow, whence  issued  a  feeble  light.  Jones  knew 
that  this  was  the  chamber  occupied  by  the  old 
Irishman.  Mrs.  Judsou  had  retired,  so  he  felt 
safe. 
"Are  you  ready '?"  whispered  Hyatt,  springing 


to  his  feet  as  the  old  man  came  through  the 
trees,  pale  and  laboring  for  breath. 

"  Come  !"  was  the  sharp  reply.  "Where's Mr. 
Gorman  ?" 

"Here  I  am,"  answered  the  foreigner,  in 
an  undertone,  approaching  them.  "Let  us  bo 
ofl!" 

"  \/e  will  leave  you  down  stairs,"  said  Hyatt, 
"  as  I  settled,  and  I  will  help  Jones." 

They  moved  forward  without  speaking,  and 
followed  Jonos,  as  ho  proceeded  swiftly  but  with 
caution  toward  the  house. 

"Hush!"  said  Jones.  "This  door  is  never 
locked— turn  into  this  passage." 

With  these  directions,  ^iven  in  a  tremulous 
tone,  he  pushed  open  z  door  that  opened  under 
a  stone  balcony  to  the  garden.  The  two  men 
followed  with  noiseless  tread,  and  entered  a 
dark  passage  leading  to  the  kitchen.  During 
perhaps  fifteen  minutes  they  stood  in  the  pas- 
sage waiting  for  the  last  faint  noise,  aa  the 
various  inmates  retired  for  the  night.  Then 
they  stole  cautiously  forth,  treading  many  pas- 
sages and  darkened  rooms,  lighted  only  by  the 
moonbeams  that  streamed  hero  and  there 
through  the  window-blinds,  until  they  reached 
the  main  entrance  hall.  Here  the  light  was 
shining  full  and  broad  over  the  black  walnut 
floor,  and  lighting  up  some  antfque  ornaments 
upon  the  wall  that  had  been  brought  from  over 
the  seas. 

"It  was  arranged  that  we  were  to  let  our- 
selves out  at  this  door,  you  know,"  whispered 
Hyatt,  placing  his  lips  close  to  the  old  man's 
ear.  "  Suppose  you  draw  the  inner  bolts,  in  case 
anything  should  happen." 

Jones  complied ;  then  they  led  Gorman  along 
to  the  library,  where  he  was  to  remain  while 
they  sought  the  chest  of  papers.  He  remained 
there,  crouching  down  in  the  dark,  his  heart 
beating  rapidly  as  he  thought  how  near  he  had 
reached  the  reahzation  of  his  hopes.  He  had  no 
dread  of  failure  now ;  half  an  hour  more,  and 
the  will  would  be  in  his  own  possession— the 
next  night  would  see  him  beyond  the  reach  of 
danger. 

Hyatt  and  his  companion  crept  softly  up  the 
staircase,  clinging  to  the  carved  work  of  the 
oaken  balustrade,  and  treading  close  together, 
each  holding  his  breath  and  longing  to  chide 
the  other  for  allowing  his  heart  to  beat  so 
loudly. 

At  last  they  paused  before  a  door  of  massive 
oak,  heavy  with  iron  knobs.  Jones  hold  up  his 
keys  in  the  moonlight,  and  selecting  one  that 
fitted  the  lock,  slowly  turned  the  bolt.  The 
room  which  they  entered  was  small  and  dark. 
There  was  but  one  window,  high  up  in  the  wall, 
and  that  was  guarded  by  a  lattice- work  of  iron 
bars,  that  answered  all  the  purposes  of  a  shut- 
ter without  entirely  obstructing  the  dayUght, 
though  the  paler  moonbeams  failed  to  penetrate 
beyond  a  few  faint  struggles. 

Hyatt  put  a  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  then  the 
glow  of  a  match  revealed  a  small  room  lined 
with  shelves  and  drawers  containing  coffers 
and  boxes,  with  some  valuable  articles  of  silver- 
plate  standing  loose  upon  the  shelves. 

"There,  get  the  box  of  deeds  and  let  us  go 
down  into  the  library,"  said  Hyatt,  holding  a 
small  lamp  that  he  had  taken  from  his  pocket, 
and  which,  until  the  top  was  unscrewed,  had 
every  abearance  of  a  common  inkstand". 


ROCK  nUUT;   OB,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


39 


Jones  took  a  box  from  one  of  tho  shelves, 
while  Hyatt  held  up  the  tiny  li^ht,  to  bo  certain 
it  was  that  of  which  they  were  in  search. 

"This  ia  it,"  he  whispered.  "Here  is  the 
label." 

"Blow  out  the  lamp  and  lock  the  door,"  re- 
turned tho  old  man,  in  the  same  tone.  "  I  can't 
do  it  with  the  box." 

The  ligbt,  as  it  went  out,  revealed  a  crafty 
smile  that  stole  over  Hyatt's  lip.  He  had  cal- 
culated all  those  movements  before,  even  to  the 
minutest  thing.  So,  as  Jones  went  out  of  the 
room  with  the  box  of  papers  in  his  arms,  Hyatt 
closed  the  door,  and  made  a  little  more  noise  in 
seeming  to  lock  it  than  he  would  have  ven- 
tured upon  had  the  attempt  been  real.  Jones 
waited  until  the  key  had  been  placed  in  his 
hands  again,  for  he  was  resolved  to  be  very 
cautious,  and  then  moved  softly  down  the 
stairs. 

The  library  was  a  vast  room,  heavy  with  oak 
carvings  and  crowded  with  heavy  bookcases, 
through  which  the  gilded  bindings  of  a  valuable 
collection  gleamed  out  with  peculiar  richness, 
though  the  tiny  lamp  that  Hyatt  had  kindled 
served  only  to  give  the  faintest  glimpse  of  the 
apartment.  But  this  was  little  heeded  by  either 
of  the  persons  present.  After  one  keen  glance 
round,  to  be  certain  that  no  unguarded  evidence 
would  betray  their  presence,  Hyatt  put  his  lamp 
down  on  a  table  that  stood  in  a  recess,  and  Gor- 
man started  forward,  snatching  the  box  with 
such  eagerness  from  the  old  man  that  he  was  a 
little  started. 

"Curse  the  thing!"  he  exclaimed  fiercely; 
"  it  is  fastened  with  a  padlock." 

"  Then  we  may  put  it  back,"  said  Jones,  in  a 
tone  of  relief,  "  for  we've  no  key  to  fit  it." 

"Fool!"  muttered  Gorman,  pushing  the  old 
man  back  when  he  would  have  taken  the  box  ; 
but  at  a  warning  remark  from  Hyatt,  he  re- 
strained his  violence. 

Hyatt  took  the  box,  and  with  a  dexterous  mo- 
tion of  the  hand,  which  concealed  some  instru- 
ment unnoticed  by  Jones,  reversed  the  staple 
and  opened  the  coffer.  Gorman  sprang  toward 
it,  and  began  pulling  out  the  papers  and  parch- 
ments with  which  it  was  filled,  while  Jones 
stood  leaning  against  the  table,  pale  an  death, 
and  exhibiting  increased  excitement  after  the 
box  was  opened. 

Again  that  peculiar  smile  crept  over  Hyatt's 
lip.  He  seated  himself  quietly  in  an  easy  chair, 
and  watched  alternately  the  frightened  old  man 
and  the  eager  stranger,  as  he  pulled  out  the  pa- 
pers with  reckless  haste. 

"Was  this  the  only  box  of  papers?"  asked 
Gorman. 

"  The  only  one,"  replied  Hyatt. 

Gorman  paused  »n  his  task  for  an  instant,  and 
wiped  the  great  drops  of  perspiration  from  his 
forehead.  If  the  will  should  net  be  there  I  The 
horrible  fear  made  him  sick  and  faint.  Then 
he  recommenced  his  task,  muttering  to  himself, 
while  Jones  crouched  lower  and  lower  under 
his  oppression  of  guilty  feeling,  and  Hyatt's 
face  lost  its  false,  sneering  smile.  He  ceased 
to  watch  his  companion.  Gradually  his  coun- 
tenance grew  anxious,  and  he  seemed  more 
earnest  in  listening  for  any  sound  that  might 
arise  from  within  the  building  than  in  searching 
for  the  deed. 

Everything  was  still  in  the  old  mansion— so 


still,  that  the  faintest  rustle  of  the  paper 
sounded  audibly,  making  the  stout  nerves  of 
John  Jones  creep  through  his  whole  frame. 
Gorman  was  muttering  to  himself,  his  face 
growing  livid,  and  an  expression  of  almost 
fiendish  despair  taking  place  of  the  wild,  exult- 
ant look  that  had  been  in  his  eyes  when  he  first 
grasped  the  coffer. 

Hyatt's  face  grew  more  troubled.  All  at  once 
he  started  in  his  chair,  his  hand  began  to  shake, 
his  head  was  turned  partly  on  one  side,  and  in 
spite  of  his  evident  exertions  to  appear  indiffer- 
ent, no  one  could  doubt  that  every  faculty  was 
absorbed  in  listening  to  a  sound  that  crept  al- 
most imperceiJtibly  toward  him  from  the  first 
staircase. 

"What  is  that?"  cried  Junes,  in  a  sharp 
whisper,  grasping  Hyatt's  chair,  and  turning 
his  white  face  toward  the  door.  "  It's  a  step — 
there's  somebody  coming !" 

"  Lock  the  door !"  exclaimed  Gbtman ;  "  I  will 
not  be  stopped !" 

"It's  nothing  of  the  sort,"  whispered  Hyatt, 
his  face  assuming  an  expression  of  indescrib- 
able relief.  "At  first  I  thought  it  was  some  one 
coming,  but  now  I  am  sure  it  was  only  a  nest  of 
rats.  These  old  houses  are  always  full  of  strange 
noises.  Go  on  with  your  work,  Mr.  Gorman ; 
there  is  plenty  of  time." 

"Hush  !"  said  Jones,  starting  again.  "I  am 
sure  there  was  the  creaking  of  a  door." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool !"  exclaimed  Gorman,  rough- 
ly, resuming  his  task. 

"You  are  frightened,  man,"  said  Hyatt.  "I 
tell  you  there  is  nothing  of  the  kind.  You  al- 
ways hear  footsteps  while  you  are  listening  for 
them." 

As  he  spoke,  Hyatt  caught  up  one  of  the 
parchments  from  the  table,  and  began  to  unroll 
it  with  a  noise  that  overpowered  any  other 
sound,  real  or  fancied,  which  had  terrified  that 
unwilling  accomplice. 

Jones  sat  down,  and  planting  one  elbow  on 
the  table,  remained  gazing  on  Gorman's  face, 
as  it  was  bent  over  the  papers.  He  could  not 
tell  if  it  was  his  own  terror,  or  if  the  dreadful 
expression  on  his  features  was  real.  The  old 
man  could  not  find  resolution  to  touch  one  of 
the  papers  himself,  and  as  he  thought  of  the 
peril  of  their  position,  the  risk  of  shame  which 
detection  was  sure  to  bring,  he  began  to  re- 
gard this  work  with  absolute  loathing. 

In  numberless  ways  Hyatt  managed  to  delay 
tho  task.  Once,  by  a  careless  movement,  he 
upset  many  of  the  papers  upon  the  floor— then 
the  light  was  extinguished;  and  though  Gor- 
man cursed  terribly,  he  bore  it  all  with  perfect 
equanimity,  apologizing  with  unusual  earnest- 
ness. 

The  bottom  of  the  coffer  was  nearly  readied, 
when  Jones  started  to  his  feet  again.  ' 

"I  tell  you  somebody  is  coming!  Hear 
that!" 

Hyatt  started,  and  his  face  grew  white,  for  a 
sharp  sound,  as  of  something  faUing  upon  tho 
stairs  or  striking  against  them,  sent  terror  to 
his  heart  also.  Gorman  drew  a  little  back  from 
the  table  and  thrust  his  hand  into  his  vest, 
where  it  grasped  a  pistol.  Any  one  entering 
would  have  had  little  chance,  in  the  almost 
frantic  state  which  he  had  reached.  Hyatt  had 
lost  all  his  cooloPHs,  and  the  unhappy  old  man 
trembled  from  head  to  foot.    The  glow  of  the 


40 


HOCK  TtmN;   on,  the  DAXTaHT:B:R  OF  THE  ISLAWD. 


lamp  was  enough  to  roveal  the  varied  expression 
of  each  face,  and  that  was  all.  Another  sound, 
less  startling  than  the  first,  which  seemed  to  be 
the  cautious  closing  of  a  door,  followed,  and 
all  was  still  again. 

"It's  nothing,,  after  all,"  whispered  Hyatt, 
with  a  forced  smile.  "  We  are  frightening  our- 
selves. But  ain't  tou  most  done,  Mr.  Gor- 
man ?" 

"Be  quick!"  added  Jones.  "I  won't  stay 
five  minutes  longer.  This  is  foul  work,  or  it 
couldn't  make  such  a  coward  of  me.  I'm 
trembling  like  a  thief!  Shut  the  box,  and  let's 
go  1" 

"  Infernal  fool !"  hissed  Gorman.  "  I  will  not 
go  without  that  paper !    To  be  foiled  now !" 

"What's  the  paper  to  youV"  returned  Jones. 
"  I  say  I  will  go !  I'd  rouse  the  house  rather 
than  stay  five  minutes  longer !" 

"  Try  it ;  but  it  will  bo  your  last  move !" 

As  Gorman  spoke,  he  drew  the  pistol  from  his 
breast.  Hyatt  sprang  toward  him  and  thrust 
the  weapon  aside. 

"You  must  be  mad!"  he  whispered.  "Wo 
can  come  again  ;  it's  better  to  go  now." 

"Go  without  the  will!"  returned  Gorman. 
"  Have  you  been  fooling  me?    Be  careful." 

"I  swear  to  you  I  have  not.  But  we  must  go 
now ;  I  can  get  the  keys  myself  next  time. 
There  must  be  another  box  of  papers." 

"  Go  after  it,"  returned  Gorman. 

"  If  he  does,  I'll  call  out  and  rouse  the  house," 
said  Jones,  who  heard  the  last  words.  "I  say 
we  must  go,  and  we  will." 

Hyatt  crowded  the  papers  back  into  the  cof- 
fer, and  closed  the  lid,  while  Gorman  stood  for 
a  moment  perfectly  paralyzed  by  the  sudden 
shock.  Suddenly  he  roused  himself  to  new  vio- 
lence, which,  after  a  little,  Hyatt  succeeded  in 
calming  ;  he  had  a  new  plan  to  propose. 

"  The  deeds  are  not  here,"  he  said,  as  Gorman 
turned  away  in  sullen  silence;  "  the  old  fellow 
has  destroyed  them." 

" Thank "^ God  for  it,  if  he  has!"  exclaimed 
Jones  ;  "  they  would  have  been  a  curse  to  me, 
I  know ;  for  since  they  were  mentioned  I  haven't 
had  a  minute's  peace*" 

With  hands  that  trembled  more  from  eager- 
ness to  depart  than  from  fear,  he  helped  to 
gather  up  the  papers,  and  held  down  the  cover 
of  the  box  while  Hyatt  pressed  the  staple  into 
the  padlock  in  a  way  that  concealed  the  injury 
which  it  had  sustained. 

Hj^att  now  seemed  as  anxious  to  go  as  the  old 
man  himself.  They  went  out  cf  the  library, 
and,  without  a  word,  Gorman  hurried  through 
the  hall,  and  left  the  house  in  a  state  of  excite- 
ment that  bordered  upon  insanity. 

Hyatt  and  the  old  man  passed  on  up  the 
stairs,  entered  the  little  room,  deposited  the 
box  in  its  former  position,  and  then  stole  out, 
locking  the  door  softly  behind  them. 

Everything  was  quiet.  They  descended  the 
stairs  and  passed  out  of  the  house,  without  hear- 
ing a  sound. 

"  Now  go  and  put  the  keys  back  where  you 
found  them,"  said  Hyatt,  when  they  reached  the 
shrubbery.  "  I'll  wait  for  you  where  we  met 
this  evening." 

"  I  will,"  he  answered ;  "  and  mark  me,  young 
man,  this  is  the  first  and  last  job  of  the  kind 
John  Jones  is  ever  engaged  in." 

He  waited  for  no  answer,  but  struck  across 


the  lawn  and  took  his  way  back  to  the  cot- 
tage. 

Hyatt  saw  him  depart,  and  a  quiet  sneer  stole 
over  his  face. 

"  So  be  it,  honest  old  fool,"  he  muttered ;  "  it's 
not  likely  you  can  ever  be  made  so  useful  again. 
As  for  the  other,  he'll  be  raving.  Confound  the 
will !— it  would  be  a  fortune  to  me  if  we  could 
find  it ;  and  when  he  hears  the  whole  of  this 
night's  business,  he'll  mistrust  me.  But  he 
shall  have  the  will ;  I  never  was  foiled  yet." 

Three  minutes'  walk  brought  Hyatt  to  a  din- 
gle in  the  woods,  in  an  opposite  direction  to  the 
one  where  he  had  proposed  to  wait  for  Jones. 
Here  he  found  two  men  crouching  among  the 
fern  ;  one  of  them  started  up  and  came  a  pace  or 
two  into  the  open  wood. 

"Is  that  you,  Smith?"  said  Hyatt,  drawing 
close  to  the  man. 

"  Yes— yes.    Is  all  snug  up  yonder  ?" 

"  Sound  asleep  as  so  many  dormice.  But  what 
a  noise  you  made  !" 

"All  owing  to  some  confounded  cups  Blako 
would  insist  on  crowding  into  his  pocket, 
though  we  all  had  enough  to  carry,"  Smith  re- 
plied. 

"  Blake  will  always  be  a  fool,"  I'ejoined  Hy- 
att. "  His  obstinacy  came  near  spoiling  the  best 
job  we  ever  undertook.  I  had  a  great  ado  to 
keep  that  old  mule  from  breaking  loose  at  the 
noise." 

"  Well— well,  all  is  safe  now.  Do  you  go  with 
us  over  there  ?" 

"No,«I  can't.  You  must  take  charge  of  that 
among  you— see  everything  safely  stowed  away. 
Ifshall  go  over  with  Gorman.  But  those  cups- 
are  they  gold  or  silver?" 

"  One  of  gold,  the  other  two  silver." 

"Let  me  have  them  ;  I  will  account  to 'the  oth- 
ers, but  they  will  serve  a  fine  purpose.  I  can't 
exiilain  now,  but  get  the  cups." 

Smith  went  down  into  the  dingle,  where  his 
companions  lay,  and  brought  three  richly-chased 
drinking  cups  in  his  hand.  Hyatt  concealed 
them  about  his  person,  and  after  a  few  more 
words  of  consultation,  walked  away  toward  the 
spot  where  he  had  promised  to  join  the  old  man. 
He  found  him  waiting. 

"Well,  has  everything  gone  safely,  Jones?'* 
he  asked. 

"Yes.  Bless  the  Lord,  it's  all  over!"  said 
Jones,  wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  fore- 
head. "  The  keys  are  in  their  place,  and  there's 
no  harm  done.  "  Now  good-night.  It'll  be  one 
while  before  I  go  deed-hunting  again,  let  me  tell 
you.'' 

"  Yes,  we  had  better  get  home,"  said  Hyatt, 
reaching  forth  his  hand,  which  the  other  took 
coldly,  "  and  then  we'll  talk  the  matter  over.  I 
don't  despair  of  finding  the  papers  yet." 

"  It  must  be  in  open  daylight,  then,"  returned 
Jones,  sturdily.  "I've  done  with  this  creeping 
work." 

"  Well— well,  we'll  talk  over  it  soon.  Go  home 
now.  I  will  take  this  way;  my  boat  is  up  the 
island." 

Half  an  hour  after  Hyatt  stole  out  from  among 
the  vines  that  sheltered  the  building  where  John 
Manson  slept,  and  slunk  away  toward  the  river, 
where  he  found  Gorman  rushing  to  and  fro  like 
a  wild  animal. 

We  must  now  pass  over  a  few  days.  Very  full 
of  sorrow  were  they  for  poor  Lucy,  and  with  ter- 


nOGK  RUIN;    OR,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  TEE  ISLAND. 


41 


ror  for  many  others.  Where  guilt  had  been  lit- 
tle expected— where,  on  the  contrary,  confidence 
had  always  been  reposed,  the  imputation  of  a 
foul  crime  now  rested.  Ay,  and  all  believed  the 
tale. 

John  Manson  was  in  the  county  jail  on  a 
charge  of  burglary.  The  proofs  were  strong 
against  him.  With  the  keys  intrusted  to  his 
care,  ho  was  said  to  have  entered  his  oaiploy- 
er's  dwellmc,  and  taken  therefrom  plate  aud 
jewels  to  a  lurge  amount.  The  proofs  against 
him  were  fearfully  strong.  He  alone  had  access 
to  the  missing  treasure.  Some  of  the  plate,  an 
inconsiderable  portion,  but  enough  for  evidence, 
had  been  discovered.  Buried  under  a  grape- 
vine, near  the  door  of  the  building  where  he 
slept,  had  been  found  three  valuable  drinking 
cups,  which  Mrs.  Jordan  recognized  as  belong- 
ing to  her  master,  and  which  had  evidently  just 
been  buried. 

ilia  examination  before  the  magistrate  had 
been  brief,  bat  conclusive ;  so  John  Manson 
was  cast  into  the  nearest  prison,  there  to  await 
liis  trial. 

One  night— a  single  night  of  darkness  and 
solitude — during  which  the  prisoner  writhed  in 
agony  such  as  he  had  never  droamed  of  be- 
fore ;  and  the  sweet  morn  found  him  feverish 
and  overwhelmed,  body  and  mind,  with  the 
calamity  that  threatened  him  with  ruin  and  dis- 
grace. 

But  in  the  morning  his  cell  was  opened,  and 
a  fair  young  creature  glided  in.  Her  garments 
were  stained  with  night  dew,  for  she  had  rowed 
many  miles  down  the  river,  and  her  soft  eyes 
were  heavy  with  that  suppressed  grief  which 
eats  so  noiselessly  into  the  heart.  She  looked 
weary,  too,  *nd  her  cheek  was  very  palo. 

John  Manson  was  seated  on  his  rude  bed,  hie 
feet  manacled  together,  and  his  face  buried  up- 
on one  arm,  with  the  clenched  hand  prcssinr; 
against  his  temple.  Lost  in  agony,  stupefied 
by  the  horrors  oi  his  position,  he  heard  the  door 
of  his  prison  open  without  heeding  it.  The  face 
of  man  had  grown  hateful  to  him.  If  the  keeper 
had  come  to  bring  him  more  food  it  was  alto- 
gether useless ;  there  was  c  pitcher  of  -Neater 
and  a  loaf  of  coarse  bread  still  upon  the  table 
close  by,  unbroken  and  untasted.  jo,  thinking 
it  was  the  turnkey  with  more  food,  the  prisoner 
neither  looked  up  nor  moved. 

And  there,  with  her  limbs  trembling;  and  her 
heart  full,  the  young  girl  stood  gazing  on  him. 
She  saw  the  iron  on  his  ankles,  the  terrible  mis- 
ery expressed  by  his  attitude ;  her  lips  began 
to  quiver,  her  eyes  filled.  Softly,  and  with  the 
gentle  action  of  a  young  mother  stealing  to  the 
sick  bed  of  her  child,  Lucy  Jones  took  off  her 
cloak  and  bonnet,  and  laying  them  down,  stole 
forward,  seated  herself  by  the  prisoner's  side, 
and  took  the  hand  that  lay  clenched  upon  his 
knee  between  hers. 

He  started  up.  His  eyes  fell  upon  that  angel 
face,  tears  rushed  into  them,  and  he  reached 
forth  both  his  shaking  hands  toward  her. 

"Lucy — Lucy!" 

She,  too,  reached  forth  her  hands,  and  her 
alender  fingers  clung  to  his.  There  was  holy 
light  glowing  through  the  tears  which  blinded 
Vier— teudernese,  love,  everything  that  goes  to 
lit.ake  up  the  glory  of  a  good  woman's  couute- 
Siance,  beamed  in  ner  look, 

^'A  siDgle  woi'4»  tTyUu,  \i^^^^  you  tftke  me  to 


your  heart  forever— one  word— are  you  inno- 
cent?" 

"  So  help  me  God  and  all  His  angels,  I  am  in- 
nocent!" 

She  fell  upon  his  bosom— her  happy  sobs  filled 
the  prison  room. 

"  I  knew  it  —I  knew  it !"  she  murmured,  cling- 
ing to  his  bosom.  "And  now,  John— my  John — 
the  God  of  the  innocent  is  with  us.  All  will  go 
well.  Take  courage,  John,  and  all  will  go  well 
with  us." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Gloomy  and  deserted  was  old  John  Jones'  cab- 
in three  nights  after  the  arrest  of  young  Man- 
son.  A  faint  glimmer  of  embers  only  shone  on 
the  hearth,  sending  a  few  pale  gleams  out  upon 
the  pine  floor,  and  leaving  the  rest  of  the  room 
in  darkness.  The  sky  was  burdened  with  clouds, 
and  the  moon  lay  buried  among  them,  giving  no 
light  through  the  windows,  and  rendering  all 
things  gloomy  and  oppressive. 

Just  as  the' old  clock  tolled  forth  the  hour  of 
nine  from  its  dark  corner,  the  door  was  pushed 
open,  and  John  Jones  entered  his  dwelling. 

He  had  been  walking  about  the  island  and  the 
neighboring  shore  with  reckless  haste,  rowing 
far  down  the  river  with  all  the  strength  of  his 
stalwart  arms,  and  his  garments  were  soaking 
with  dew.  Drops  of  perspiration  stood  upon 
his  upper  lip  and  streamed  from  his  forehead, 
and  as  he  took  off  his  hat,  the  hair  beneath'  lay 
matted  and  wet  upon  his  massive  head. 

The  old  man  glanced  toward  the  faded  em- 
bers, and  seeing  that  they  had  not  been  stirred 
since  he  left  them,  turned  away  and  sat  down 
near  the  window ;  but  the  close  air  seemed  to 
oppress  him,  and  flinging  up  the  sash,  tlie  un- 
happy old  man  folded  his  arms  on  the  sill,  and 
thus  smothered  the  groan  that  burst  from  his 
lips. 

After  a  few  minutes,  Jones  lifted  his  head  and 
cast  a  haggard  look  around  the  room. 

"She  will  come  again— she  cannot  have  left 
her  old  father  forever,"  he  said,  and  the  rough 
tones  of  his  voice  were  broken  with  anguish. 
"  I  have  deserved  it  all— but  my  child,  my  only 
child,  she  should  not  have  left  me !" 

Again  the  old  man  buried  his  face  upon  the 
window-sill,  and  it  was  plain  to  see,  by  the 
heaving  of  his  chest  and  the  broken  sobs  that 
struggled  to  his  lips,  that  tears  had  at  last  been 
wrung  from  his  stout  heart.  They  did  him  good, 
those  warm,  blessed  tears.  The  moment  he  al- 
lowed them  to  flow  freely  his  grief  was  relieved. 
So  ho  indulged  in  them  awhile,  and  then  arose 
to  his  feet,  calmer  than  he  had  been  for  many 
hours. 

"  She  may  come  back  even  yet,"  he  said,  gaz- 
ing toward  the  hearth,  and  moving  close  to  it, 
began  to  rekindle  the  fire.  "She  will  be  tired 
and  hungry,  poor  thing ;  and  I— oh,  if  she  only 
comes  back! — I  shall  be  hungry,  too,  once 
more  I" 

He  bent  down  and  began  to  blow  the  coals 
with  his  lips.  Thfere  was  a  noise— the  light 
sound  of  a  footstep  approaching  the  door. 

The  old  man's  heart  leaped  within  him.  He 
started,  and  bending  forward  on  his  knees,  with 
one  broad  hand  pressed  upon  the  hearth,  looked 
toward  the  door.  The  light  from  the  kindling 
piuo-wood  gleamed  over  it,  revealing  a  world  oi 


42 


ROCK  BUm;   OR,  TTTE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


strong  emotion  busy  with  his  features,  as  he  held 
his  breath  and  listened. 

It  was  a  footstep,  faint  and  unsteady  with 
fatigue.  The  old  man  sprang  up,  opened  the 
door,  and  reached  forth  his  arms  *-a  sound,  half 
sobs,  half  laughter,  broke  from  him.  His  child 
was  there,  her  arms  around  his  neck,  her  cold 
lips  upon  his  cheek,  but  so  weary  that  she  could 
Kcarcely  stand. 

"  My  child— Lucy,  darling !  I  thought  you  had 
left  your  poor  old  father  forever  and  ever! 
Come  in— come  in,  and  tell  me  where  you  have 
been.  You  don't  know,  Lucy,  what  I  felt,  nor 
how  I  missed  you.  I  haven't  slept  an  hour  or 
tasted  a  mouthful  since  you  went  away.  What 
did  you  think  I  could  do  without  my  child? 
Where  have  you  been  ?" 

"  Where  should  I  have  been,  father,  but  to 
him  V"  said  the  soft,  low  voice  of  Lucy  Jones. 
"  I  thought  you  would  know  where  I  was  with- 
out telling." 

".But  it  was  such  a  long,  lon^  row  for  you  to 
undertake  !  I  didn't  think  of  it,  Lucy  ;  I  only 
thought  you  couldn't  love  your  poor  old  brute 
of  a  father  ever  again,  and  so  had  gone  away  to 
let  him. live  and  die  alone." 

"  Oh,  father  1  father !  surely  you  did  not  think 
that !  fie  was  in  prison  ;  I  could  not  rest  and 
know  it.  It  was  a  loDg  way,  but  I  did  not  think 
so  when  I  was  going  or  coming  back  again.  Let 
us  go  in,  for  I  have  good  news  to  tell.  John  is 
innocent ;  the  charge  they  bring  against  him  is 
false ;  he  told  mo  so  with  his  own  lips." 

"I  know  it  is— I  know  it  from  the  first,"  re- 
plied the  old  man,  turning  his  face  aside,  for  the 
light  now  shone  brightly  from  the  fireplace,  and 
the  large  soft  eyes  of  his  daughter  were  lifted 
earnestly  to  his.  "I  believe,  before  Heaven, 
that  you,  Lucy,  ain't  more  innocent  of  crime 
than  *^John  Manson.     He's  been  a  victim— the 

victim  of  a  stupid  old  fool,  and— and But 

come  in,  Lucy,  come  in ;  the  right  will  come 
out.  Now  that  you've  got  back,  I  shall  be  strong 
enough  for  anything.  Come  and  set  down  in 
your  mother's  chair  and  rest  a  while.  I'll  warm 
up  some  milk  for  you,  just  as  you  used  to  like 
when  you  was  a  little  gal." 

Lucy  did  not  answer,  for  completely  overcome 
with  fatigue  she  sank  into  the  chair,  and  had 
scarcely  strength  to  untie  her  bonnet  when  her 
head  fell  on  one  side  and  her  eyelids  closed. 

"  Poor  thing  !  poor  thing !  it's  enough  to  kill 
tier  l"  cried  the  old  man,  stopping  as  he  passed 
the  chair  to  kiss  her  pale  forehead.  "  Oh,  if  her 
mother  was  only  here  !" 

The  poor  man  paused  at  that  name,  and  his 
countenance  fell ;  then  he  continued,  in  a  tone 
of  bitter  self  reproach  : 

"  And  if  she  was  here,  wouldn't  she  ask  who 
had  brought  her  child  to  this  ?  Wouldn't  she  ask 
if  the  hard-heartednesa  of  her  own  father  hadn't 
dono  i-)?  No,  no  ;  I'm  glad  her  mother  ain't  by 
to  fire  my  own  heart  agin  me." 

Lucy  neither  moved  nor  seemed  to  breathe  as 
the  old  man  bent  over  her  from  time  to  time, 
when  he  went  to  the  cupboard  for  brandy,  sugar, 
and  nutmeg,  which  he  mixed  with  the  pearl- 
white  milk  that  frothed  and  foamed  in  the  cup 
upon  the  coals  in  the  fireplace. 

When  it  was  ready,  the  weary  girl  remained 
in  v"  repose  so  profound  that  no  noise  seemed 
capable  of  arousing  her.  The  old  man  spoke  to 
her  aloud,  raised  her  head  with  his  hand  pressed 


against  her  cheek,  and  at  last  shook  her  gently. 
Her  eyes  were  unclosed  at  last,  and  with  a  faint 
smile  she  rose  from  her  chair.  Taking  the  prof- 
fered spoon  in  her  trembling  hand,  she  languid- 
ly tasted  the  frothing  beverage. 

A  few  mouthfuls  seemed  to  revive  her,  and 
the  old  man's  eyes  began  to  sparkle  as  he  saw 
that  the  nourishment  he  had  prepared  was 
bringing  back  the  color  to  her  cheeks  and  lips, 
while  the  tired  creature  partook  of  it  with  m- 
increasmg  relish. 

*'  Father,  you  are  looking  sick  and  tired  as 
much  as  I  am,"  she  said,  at  length,  lifting  her 
eyes  to  him  as  he  stood  by  her  with  his  arms 
folded  and  watching  with  satisfaction  every 
mouthful  she  took. 

"  No,  no ;  I  never  was  better  in  my  life." 

"And  I — how  strong  this  h'as  made  me  I  I 
must  have  been  very  hungry,  father,"  said  the 
poor  girl,  looking  around  with  renewed  bright- 
ness in  her  face,  "  very  hungry  to  have  forgot- 
ten that  you  are  standing  all  the  time,  and  that 
there  was  neither  dish  nor  spoon  for  any  one 
but  myself." 

"  No  matter,"  replied  the  old  man,  passing 
his  hand  over  his  head ;  "  I  hadn't  any  appetite 
till  now ;  I'll  have  a  bit  of  cold  meat  in  a  minute. 
Just  lean  back  in  your  mother's  chair,  Lucy,  and 
toll  me  ali.  that  has  happened  since  you  went 
away,  while  I'm  taking  a  bite." 

The  old  man  brought  a  plate  of  cold  meat  and 
bread  from  the  cupboard  and  sat  down  near  her 
to  eat  with  something  like  his  old  appetite,  while 
Lucy  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  related  all 
that  had  passed  during  her  visit  to  John  Man- 
son. 

"  And  now,  father,"  she  said  at  the  close,  "  I 
am  promised  to  him ;  I  believe  him' to  be  inno- 
cent—knowing him  to  be  friendless,  the  pledge 
which  i  had  given  becomes  more  binding  and 
more  sacred.  Though  the  courts  call  him  guilty, 
I  will  be  his  wife.  If  he  suffers  disgrace,  I  will 
share  it.  " 

"  Heohall  not  suffer  I"  cried  Jones,  vehement- 
ly. "  I  have  sworn  it,  and  my  oath  shall  be  per- 
formed, though  I  bring  poverty  and  disgrace 
upon  mysolf.  You  shril  be  his  wife,  Lucy,  and 
there  shall  be  no  disgrace  to  troubleyou,  either." 

"Father,  whai  do  you  mean?  What  do  you 
know  oi  this  afiair?  How  can  you  help  John 
Manson  V  Toll  mb,  I'ather,  I  beseech  you  toll 
me,  what  hope  ohero  x  in  store  for  us  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you,  Lucys  or  ':.  want  somebody  to 
talk  with,  and  now  that  your  mother  is  gone, 
who  else  can  I  trust  except  her  child  ?  I  will  tell 
you  everything  that  has  happened,  and  then  we 
can  consult  and  act  together,  I  won't  have  no 
other  friend,  and  you  won't  blame  me  too  much, 
for  I  am  humbled  enough  in  my  own  eyes  al- 
ready. You  won't  blame  me  too  much,  will  you, 
Lucv  ?" 

"  Oh,  father !"  cried  the  girl,  and  tears  sprang 
to  her  eyes,    "  Did  she  ever  reproach  you  ?" 

"  No,  no  ;  and  she  didn't  have  no  cause  ;  no 
such  cause  as  the  present,  at  any  rate  ;  but  I've 
been  a  fool,  a  dupe— everything  but  a  villain, 
Lucy,  and  that  he  couldn't  persuade  me  to  be ! 
Oh,  Lucy,  Lucy,  if  I'd  only  took  your  advice  and 
kept  clear  of  that  oily-tongued  scoundrel !" 

The  old  man  started  from^his  chair  and  began 
to  pace  the  room. 

"  I  know  who  it  is  you  mean,"  said  Lucy,  in  a 


BOCK  RUIN;   OR,  THE  DA  UOTITER  OF  THE  ISLAND, 


43 


faiut  voice;  "he  ig  even  now  helping  the  law- 
yers to  lind  evidence  against  Manson. ' 

"  He  is  !  he  is  I  the  hound  !"  cried  Jones,  and 
his  footsteps  fell  fierce  and  heavy  upon  the  floor. 

"  He  has  already  forced  himself  into  Manson's 
prison,"  said  Lucy,  "  but  John  refused  to  speak 
before  him.  You  know  Mr.  Conner  has  em- 
ployed him  a  great  deal  on  business,  and  he 
pretends  to  act  as  a  sort  of  agent  for  him." 

"  He's  a  villain— a  double-dyed  villain  I  Oh, 
if  I  can  only  prove  it  as  well  as  say  it !  .But  I 
will !  God  can  help  me,  and  the  very  stones 
ought  to  find  a  voice  to  help  me  in  this  thing ! 
I  may  bring  disgrace  on  an  honest  name,  but 
the  innocent  shall  go  free— the  guilty  shall  suf- 
fer— I  have  sworn  it !" 

Lucy  gazed  on  the  excited  old  man  ;  his  unu- 
sual energy  seemed  to  have  swept  all  traces  of 
fatigue  from  her  face ;  she  sat  upright  and 
grasped  hj*r1iand  between  both  hers. 

"  Oh,  father,  tell  me  all !  Tell  me  how  his 
innocence  can  be  made  clear !" 

The  old  man  paused,  covered  his  face  for  a 
moment,  and  then  drawing  close  to  his  child, 
told  her  aU-his  weakness,  all  the  experience  of 
that  time  when  he  was  so  completely  under  the 
influence  of  young  Hyatt  and  his  more  danger- 
ous employer,  Gorman.  She  heard  him,  though 
now  growing  as  pale  as  death,  again  flushing  red 
with  shame  for  the  hallucinatioa  which  seemed 
to  have  possessed  her  parent. 

"  And  are  you  convinced,"  shfe  said  at  length, 
"  that  this  story  of  the  deed — the  claim  on  the 
estate— was  all  a  fancied  one  ?" 

"  From  beginning  to  end  1"  cried  the  old  man, 
almost  fiercely.  "  I  was  a  dupe,  a  fool — but  it 
is  all  over  now— ho  shall  find  me  as  cunning  as 
himself.  I'll  track  them  like  a  pointer  day  and 
night— early  and  late  they  shall  find  me  on  the 
scent !" 

"And  I,"  said  the  young  girl,  while  her  soft 
eyes  kindled  and  her  form  dilated  with  noble 
resolution,  "I  can,  perhaps,  do  something.  Oh, 
father,  this  will  all  turn  out  well ;  I  felt  it  from 
the  first— now  I  am  sure  of  it  I" 

*'  I've  been  out  to-night,"  said  the  old  man, 
glaneing  at  his  damp  clothes,  "  dodging  about 
the  tavern  like  a  hound.  They  sh'a'nt  move, 
look,  or  speak,  that  I  won't  know  it  all.  I'm 
going  out  agin,  and  jou'd  better  go  to  bed, 
though  it  is  early." 

Lucy  did  not  attempt  to  detain  him,  but  throw- 
ing her  arms  about  his  neck,  kissed  his  weather- 
beaten  cheek. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said  ;  "good-night,  good- 
night, and  God  bless  you  I  I  shall  not  be  so 
tired  that  I  cannot  pray  for  you  and  him.  To- 
morrow we  shall  both  be  strong  again." 

"  To-morrow !  Perhaps  everything  will  be  set 
right  by  that  time,"  said  the  old  man  cheerfully, 
and  taking  his  rifle  from  a  corner. 

As  he  reached  the  door  he  met  Mrs.  Jordan, 
who  had  grown  so  anxious  about  Lucy  that  af- 
ter sending  a  variety  of  messengers,  she  had 
come  herself  to  learn  if  Mr.  Jones  had  received 
any  news. 

"  She's  here  I  she's  here  !"  he  said,  in  answer 
to  her  hurried  inquiries.     "  Come  in,  come  in." 

Lucy  sprang  to  her  friend  with  a  glad  wel- 
come, and  after  watching  their  hearty  embrace, 
the  old  mar.  furtively  wiped  hia  eyea  and  went 
his  way. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

It  was  now  somewhat  after  nine  o'clock.  The 
sky  was  still  heavy  with  clouds,  and  but  for  his 
knowledge  of  the  place,  John  Jones  could 
hardly  have  found  his  way  through  the  bushes 
to  the  place  where  his  boat  was  moored. 

He  rowed  across  the  river  and  landed  his  skiff 
a  little  distance  above  the  tavern.  He  drew 
cautiously  toward  the  public-house,  and  sitting 
down  under  the  shelter  of  a  clump  of  alders, 
with  his  gun  planted  between  his  knees,  kept  a 
vigilant  watch  upon  one  of  the  windows,  through 
which  a  light  was  streaming.  He  had  sat  there 
perhaps  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  when  the 
light  was  extinguished.  The  window  was  softly 
opened,  and  Jones'  eyes  were  now  so  accustomed 
to  the  darkness  that  he  saw  a  man  leap  lightly 
over  the  sill  upon  the  porch. 

Directly  after  the  figure  came  creeping  through 
the  darkness,  and  passed  the  watchful  old 
farmer  so  near  that  a  hand  stretched  forth  to 
grope  its  way  pushed  aside  the  gun  barrel,  evi- 
dently mistaking  it  for  the  branch  of  a  tree. 
The  old  man  held  his  breath  and  allowed  the 
gun  to  sway  in  his  hand  when  it  received  this 
unexpected  thrust.  But  after  the  figure  had 
advanced  a  pace  or  two,  he  arose  very  cautious- 
ly and  strode  after  it  down  the  circuitous  path 
to  the  river. 

The  man  removed  a  small  boat  hidden  among 
the  bushes,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  shot  out  into 
the  stream,  Jones  leaped  into  his  own  and  start- 
ed in  pursuit.  His  wild  life  had  taught  him  the 
art  of  paddling  silently  as  an  Indian,  and  he 
could  easily  follow  the  night  adventurer  by  the 
noise  made  with  his  oars. 

The  two  boats  passed  rapidly  on  up  the  steam 
until  Jones  caught  the  outline  of  Eock  Kuin 
looming  up  through  the  shadows.  The  foremost 
boat  put  ashore  just  under  the  tall  cliff.  On 
the  instant  a  wild  hope  sprang  up  in  the  old 
man's  heart.  He  landed  his  boat  likewise,  and 
followed  the  figure  as  it  moved  along  the  rocky 
path,  a  muttered  oath  as  the  man  stumbled  over 
a  rotten  stump  assuring  him  of  what  he  had  be- 
fore been  almost  certain — it  was  Hyatt  whom  he 
followed. 

He  stole  away  through  the  loose  fragments  of 
rock  close  to  the  base  of  the  cliff,  and  looking 
up,  was  transfixed  with  astonishment  to  see 
gleams  of  light  shining  through  some  crevices, 
and  half  smothered  laughter,  mingled  with 
the  metallic  ringing  of  drinking  cups  in  violent 
motion. 

Hyatt  passed  along  the  cliff  and  stooped  down 
before  an  opening  which  Jones  had  not  yet  per- 
ceived. There  was  a  sharp  oath  as  ho  struggled 
in  the  gloom,  answered  by  a  shout^om  within. 
Then  the  aperture  was  illumined  by  a  glare  of 
light,  and  through  the  crevice,  to  which  his  eye 
was  fastened,  Jones  could  look  in. 

He  saw  a  small  cave,  at  one  end  of  which  was 
a  sort  of  natural  staircase,  evidently  leading  to 
an  inner  chamber,  and  upon  the  uj)per  platform 
stood  Hyatt's  three  confederates,  bearing  the 
lights,  and  evidentlyexcitedby  the  strong  drink 
furnished  for  the  night's  carouse. 

Jones  could  see  each  man  of  the  group  dis- 
tinctly. The  tall  one  bonding  downward  with  a 
hght,  the  other  two  holding  together  as  if  to 
keep  from  staggering  off"  the  platform,  and 
laughing  with  a  drunken  ohuckle  at  the  new 
comer,  who  crept  slowly  forward  toward  the 


44 


MOCK  nnm;  on,  the  daxtquteb  of  the  island. 


broken  rocks,  which,  as  I  have  said,  proved  a 
sort  of  natural  staircase,  at  the  top  of  which  they 
stood. 

The  light  streamed  full  upon  his  person,  as  ho 
mounted- the  ascent,  and  with  a  glow  of  keen 
satisfaction,  the  old  man  recognized  to  a  cer- 
tainty young  Hyatt,  writhing  himself  like  a  ser- 
pent along  the  broken  masses  of  stone.  He 
saw  the  young  villain  reach  the  platform,  when 
the  tail  man  clapped  him  triumphantly  on  the 
back.  The  others  seized  him  each  by  an  arm, 
and  bending  down,  forced  their  way  through 
another  opening,  and  the  whole  group  disap- 
peared, leaving  only  gleams  of  light  shooting 
through  the  crevices,  and  the  sound  of  their 
voices,  by  which  the  old  man  could  judge  of 
their  exact  position. 

The  stout  old  explorer  had  no  patience  to  wait. 
Scarcely  had  the  others  disappeared,  when  he 
began  to  climb  the  same  difficult  pass  which  they 
had  taken.  Jones  was  a  courageous  man,  cool 
and  deliberate,  and  a  hardy  life  had  added  to  his 
great  natural  strength.  He  tried  every  step  be- 
fore his  foot  was  firmly  planted,  and  fastened 
his  hard  fingers  into  the  creeping  vmes,  which 
proved  a  sort  of  balustrade  along  one  aide  of  the 
rocky  wall. 

At  length  he  stood  upon  the  platform,  and 
stooping  down,  looked  through  the  opening. 
Close  to  him  was  a  sort  of  narrow  recess,  then 
another  aperture  loading  into  a  large  chamber, 
from  whence  issued  the  drunken  voices  of  these 
brigand  revelers.  He  crept  into  this  dark  pas- 
sage, and  getting  close  up  to  the  wall,  with  the 
wary  motions  of  a  snake,  found  a  crevice  in  the 
rock  through  which  he  could  watch  everything 
that  went  on  within  the  room  without  the  slight- 
est fear  of  discovery. 

A  strange  scene  was  going  on  in  -bkat  cavern 
chamber— so  strange  that,  had  the  old  man  come 
upon  it  without  warning,  he  must  have  believed 
it  all  the  delusion  of  his  fancy.  Upon  points  of 
the  projecting  rock,  and  along  the  wall,  half  a 
dozen  lamps  of  chased  silver  were  swinging. 
One,  of  the  purest  alabaster,  with  a  network  of 
the  most  exquisite  g^d  filagree,  swayed  to  and 
fro  upon  a  festoon  of  some  wild  vine  that  fell 
down  from  the  ceiling,  kindling  up  the  stalac- 
tites upon  the  wall,  until  the  place  glowed  with 
supernatural  glory. 

At  one  end  cf  the  room  a  fire  had  been  light- 
ed, and  great  steaks  of  venison  smoked  upon 
the  coals,  flanked  by  wild  pigeons,  trout,  and  all 
the  delicacies  which  the  forest  and  mountain 
streams  of  the  neighborhood  furnished  in  such 
abundance. 

Beneath  the  center  lamp  several  broad  slabs 
cf  stone  hadrfUfeen  piled  up  to  form  a  table,  upon 
which  two  of  the  men  were  beginning  to  place 
the  supper.  A  service  of  heavy  plate  was  scat- 
tered about,  a  heap  of  drinking  cups  lay  on  the 
table,  and  as  the  silver  and  gold  caught  the  re- 
flections from  the  shining  walls,  they  flashed  like 
flame. 

To  add  addilional  interest  to  the  place,  the 
other  end  of  the  room  had  only  a  wall  for  part  of 
the  distance— the  eye  looked  down  into  an  im- 
penetrable darkness,  and  the  roar  of  waters  far 
below  showed  that  it  was  a  deep  abyss,  with 
some  underground  stream  forcing  its  way  along 
at  the  bottom. 

And  now  around  this  table,  so  nidely  magnifi- 
cent, sat  the  three  robbers,  with  Hyatt  standing 


in  their  midst.  Astonishment,  anger,  and  ap- 
prehension were  all  depicted  in  his  pale  face, 
as  he  looked  upon  the  scene ;  and  he  refused  to 
sit  down,  though  the  younger  members  of  the 
band  were  both  attempting  to  force  him  toward  a 
block  of  stone  placed  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

"Are  you  crazy  ?  Has  success  driven  you  all 
insane?'^'  he  asked,  turning  fiercely  upon  the 
men  who  had  hold  of  him,  and  shaking  them 
rudely  off.  "  What  fiend  possessed  you  to  drag 
all  these  things  from'their  hiding  place,  and  to 
light  up  this  chff  like  a  watch  tower  ?  You,  at 
least,  Smith,  should  have  known  better." 

"It's  no  fault  of  mine.  I  knew  nothing  of  the 
matter  till  the  eatables  were  here.  After  all, 
where  is  the  danger  ?  We  have  choked  up  every 
crevice  which  threatened  to  let  out  the  light, 
and  there's  nobody  likely  to  bo  prowling  around 
Bock  Buin  at  this  hour." 

Hyatt  was  about  to  make  some  sharp  reply, 
but  Blake  seized  his  arm. 

"Come — come,  my  fine  fellow,"  he  said,  "no 
grumbling.  We  came  to  have  a  night  of  it ;  sour 
faces  won  t  frighten  us.  Here  we  are  all  cap- 
tains, you  know.  Sit  down  and  take  a  pull  at 
this." 

Hyatt  pushed  the  fellow  away,  as  he  lifted  one 
of  the  silver  pitchers  and  held  it  toward  him,  so 
violently  that  he  sent  the  crimson  liquor  over  hia 
dress,  drenching  it  terribly. 

"I  want  nothing  to  drink,"  he  said,  sternly. 

"  What  nonsense  !"  returned  the  other.  "  Why, 
the  stuff  comes  out  of  old  Conner's  cellar. 
Here's  wine,  if  you  prefer  it,  mellow  and  soft  as 
a  woman's  kisses." 

"  I  don't  care  for  its  mellowness,  nor  how  it 
came  here,"  said  Hyatt.  "  We  met  on  business, 
not  on  a  drunken  frolic." 

"Why,  hang  it,  old  boy,  I  can  see  no  great 
harm  in  the  matter,"  said' the  other  young  man, 
taking  the  pitcher  from  Blake  and  applymg  it  to 
his  own  ruddy  mouth.  "Ripe  drink  never 
comes  amiss,  nor  a  good  friend,  either.  Blake 
and  I  have  managed  this  blow-out,  and  we 
won't  go  home  till  morning." 

"You  see,"  persisted  Blake,  "you  see,  old 
boy,  wo  had  a  fancy  for  a  supper  in  style,  once 
in  our  lives.  We  wanted  to  make  a  dash  with 
our  gold  and  silver  before  it's  knocked  into  a 
lump  for  the  receiver ;  and  we  will— that's  set- 
tled." 

"I  thought  we  had  come  here  to  divide  the 
plate,"  said  Kyatt,  turning  toward  Smith.  "  We 
can't  undertake  the  risk  of  a  meeting  here  often, 
I  can  tell  you." 

Smith  drew  him  on  one  side,  close  by  the  wall 
where  the  old  farmer  was  listening,  and  whis- 
pered a  few  words  in  his  ear*. 

"  I  tell  you  it's  better  to  let  these  fools  have 
their  share.  They're  getting  keen  after  a  full 
share  of  the  spoil.  Once  blinded  with  drink,  we 
can  settle  things  with  them  in  our  fashion.  Don't 
you  understand  ?" 

Hyatt  smiled,  and  turning  toward  the  others, 
said',  in  a  cheerful  tone : 

"Well,  boys,  as  you  have  taken  the  trouble,  we 
must  run  the  risk.  Carve  away,  Blake,  while  I 
fill  the  goblets.  Here,  take  the  head-  we  are 
only  guests." 

"  That's  something  like,"  said  Smith,  "  Come, 
draw  'round,  and  let  us  hear  how  real  plate  can 
jingle.  A  breast  of  that  partridge  for  me.  AU 
right !    You  aro  the  prince  of  carvers,  Blake." 


llOGK  nVW;   OR,  TH^  DAmHTM  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


45 


"A  fellow  ought  to  eat  off  half  a  dozen  ijlates 
at  once,  with  a  nigger  behind  him.  This  ian't 
the  thing,  aftei*  all." 

"Nothing  could  be  better,"  cried  Hyatt,  who 
seemed  to  enter  heart  and  soul  into  the  scene. 
"  Here's  to  old  Conner's  health." 

"All  right !"  cried  thev  in  chorus. 

"  How  does  Gorman  feel  now?"  Smith  asked. 

" He  is  raving,"  replied  Hyatt.  "He  swears 
he  wfll  give  us  up  to  justice  for  stealing  the 
plate,  but  there  is  no  danger  of  that — we  iiave 
tim  about  the  papers." 

"Let  him  fret,"  returned  Blake.  "He  can't 
do  us  any  harm." 

"Yes,  but  I  want  to  find  that  paper.  It 
would  be  worth  a  fortune  to  all  of  us,  I  can  tell 
you." 

"And  old  Jones  really  thought  it  was  for  him 
you  took  all  that  trouble  ?  Oh,  it's  too  much  I" 
and  Blake  laughed  a  loud,  drunken  crow,  till  the 
tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

This  scene  of  craft  and  riot  continued  for  two 
hours.  Then  Hyatt  left  the  table  and  insisted  on 

Eroceeding  to  business,  but  though  Smith  joined 
im,  the  other  two  absolutely  refused  to  enter 
into  any  division  of  the  spoils  that  night.  It  was 
too  late,  they  said— another  time  would  do  as 
well.  Drink  had  made  them  obstinate,  and 
neither  Smith  nor  Hyatt  felt  that  it  would  be 
prudent  to  risk  a  quarrel. 

"Well,"  Hyatt  said,  "to-morrow  you  can 
come  back  to  the  tavern.  You've  had  time  to  at- 
tend to  the  timber  business  I'm  supposed  to 
have  sent  you  about.  We  must  get  away  from 
here  soon,  but  I  want  one  more  search  for  that 
paper  first." 

All  this  scene  the  old  man  had  witnessed. 
His  eager  eye  had  marked  every  gesture— his 
ear  had  not  lost  a  word.  Excitement  had  ren- 
derd  him  fearless,  and  he  descended  the  dilapi- 
dated steps  without  heeding  the  dangers  of  the 
passage.  He  was  certain  that  he  could  again 
find  the  place  of  entrance,  and  groping  his  way 
out,  hurried  down  to  his  boat  and  rowed  swiftly 
toward  his  homo. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Lucy  Jones  slept  deeply  all  night,  for  her  fa- 
tigue had  been  so  great  that  even  anxiety  had 
failed  to  overpower  it.  But  the  first  breath  of 
morning  aroused  her,  and  after  that  sweet  mo- 
ment of  prayer  which  seems  holiest  when  taken 
from  the  tirst  hours  of  the  day,  she  went  down 
to  her  household  duties  blooming  and  refreshed. 

The  massive  old  tea-kettle  was  already  steam- 
ing and  hissing  over  the  fire,  and  Lucy  was 
upon  her  knees,  shading  her  cheek  with  one 
hand  while  the  other  held  a  slice  of  half-toast- 
ed bread  before  the  embers  when  her  father 
came  in  from  the  wood-house,  where  she  had 
heard  the  soundof  his  ax  for  the  last  half-hour. 
Never  had  she  seen  his  step  more  buoyant  or 
his  eye  more  bright. 

"  A  mouthful  of  breakfast,  child."  he  said, 
stooping  to  kiss  the  fair  face  uplifted  to  him 
with  an  inquiring  look,  "  and  then  get  out  my 
Sunday  clothes,  for  I  am  going  away.  Didn't  I 
say  the  innocent  should  be  righted  ?"" 

"  What  have  you  seen,  father?  what  has  hap- 
pened?" cried  Liicy,  lifting  the  plate  of  toast 
from  before  the  fire  with  her  now  trembling 
bands.    "  I  can  see  by  your  eyes,  by  your  whole 


face,  that  something  has  happened.  What  is  it, 
father  ?" 

"  What  should  you  say,"  returned  the  old 
man,  "  what  should  you  think  if  I  had  seen  'etn 
all,  with  that  young  villain  a-leadin'  of  'em,  feast- 
ing  with  wine  and  venison  ofl"  Mr.  Conner's 
plate.     What  would  you  think  of  that,  Lucy  ?" 

"But  where,  father— how  did  it  all  happen- 
where  could  you  have  seen  this  ?" 

"Didn't  I  say  I'd  bo  a  hound  on  their  track  ? 
I  watched  Hyatt's  window  last  night,  and  I  fol- 
lowed him  in  his  boat  up  to  Rock  Ruin,  and 
there  I  seen  him  and  the  three  others  with  all 
the  plate," 

Lucy  was  breathless  with  astonishment. 

"And  that  Gorman ?" 

"  No,  no  ;  he  warn't  there ;  it  seems  he  warn't 
a  regular  thief— he's  after  papers  or  somethin' 
— that's  the  reason  they  fooled  me  so  ;  but  I'll  be 
even  with  'em.  I'm  a  goin'  down  to  the  town  to 
see  the  lawyers.  It'll  all  be  right,  Lucy— jist 
let  Mr.  Conner  get  here,  and  we'll  have  John 
back  in  his  old  place,  while  them  villains  take  a 
turn  at  the  jail." 

"  Oh,  father,  and  you  will  have  done  this— you 
will  have  set  him  free— his  honest  name  clear  of 
reproach— his  faith  in  aiust  Providence  stronger 
than  ever !  This  is  happiness  ;  the  sweetest,  dear- 
est I  ever  knew." 

And  with  the  bright  tears  rolling  down  her 
cheek,  so  unlike  the  scalding  drops  she  had 
shod  but  yesterday,  Lucy  flung  her  arms  about 
the  old  man,  and  kissed  his  forehead  and  brown 
cheek. 

"Not  yet,  Lucy  ;  don't  thank  me  yet ;  the  work 
ain't  only  half  done,"  returned  the  old  man, 
cheerfully,  patting  her  head  with  his  large  hand. 
"  Wait  till  Manson  is  out  of  jail  and  that  voung 
villain  in,  and  then,  Lucy — why,  then,  we'll  have 
a  day  o'  thanksgivin'  and  a  weddin'  day  all  in 
one." 

You  should  have  seen  how  beautiful  Ljicy 
Jones  was  as  her  father  uttered  these  words — 
how  her  cheeks  bloomed  out  beneath  the  tears 
that  trembled  over  them  like  drops  upon  an 
almond  flower.  You  should  have  seen  all  this— 
the  quick  drooping  of  her  white  eyelids,  the  red- 
dening of  the  lips,  and  the  pleasant  little  tremor 
into  which  she  was  thrown,  only  to  have  had  the 
faintest  idea  of  the  lovely  picture  she  would 
have  made  while  leaning  upon  the  shoulder  of 
that  stalwart  old  man.  I  only  wish  that  instead 
of  this  weak  pen  I  had  Tompson's  pencil  to  lay 
in  the  tints  for  you.  Half  an  hour  before,  Lucy 
would  not  have  blushed  at  the  mention  of  John 
Manson  and  her  wedding  day,  she  was  all  too 
anxious  for  those  sweet  emotions  that  only 
evanesce  from  a  happy  heart  like  the  sparkle 
from  an  overwhelmmg  goblet.  But  now  that 
she  had  fair  hopes  that  her  lover's  peril  was 
over,  the  heroine  went  out  from  her  soul.  Her 
modesty,  so  becoming— her  blushes,  so  glowing 
and  bright— all  came  back,  and  she  would  have 
found  it  much  easier  to  have  stood  up  by  Man- 
son's  side  on  his  trial  than  to  look  fer  one  mo- 
ment into  her  father's  eyes. 

So  without  a  word  of  reply  the  young  girl  stole 
away  to  her  work  again,  and  was  marvelously 
busy  in  the  pantry,  and  around  that  ponderous 
old  tea-kettle  that  sat  upon  its  nest  of  flame,  and 
kept  singing  on  like  a  Phoenix  rejoicing  over  the 
ashes  that  had  given  it  birth.  Marvelously  busy 
and  exeeedingly  beautiful  was  Lucy  just  then. 


4G 


no  OK  Bum;   OB,  THE  DATIQHTEB  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


The  old  man  glauced  occasionally  at  ber  from 
under  his  heavy  brows,  and  a  pjrim  smile  stole 
over  his  lips.  At  last  he  rose  briskly  and  went 
into  another  room  to  change  his  clothes,  which 
bore  many  a  rough  testimony  to  the  adventures 
of  the  preceding  night.  "When  he  came  forth 
again,  Lucy  had  prej)ared  a  package  of  bread  and 
cheese  which  she  placed  in  his  ample  pocket,  and 
saw  him  depart  with  tearful  eyes  that  blended 
sweetly  with  the  smile  which  hope  and  gratitude 
sent  every  moment  from  her  warm  heart  to  the 
glowing  lip.  She  stood  a  moment  hesitating, 
trembling,  then  with  a  glow  that  flushed  her  face 
like  a  rose,  ran  through  the  honeysuckle  lattice 
and  overtook  her  father  as  ho  Vas  hurrying 
toward  the  bank. 

"Father!" 

The  old  man  turned  and  looked  kindly  upon 
her. 

"  You— you  will  see  him  ?  He  is  so  depressed, 
so  miserable  1  If  you  could  only  bring  yourself 
to " 

"  No,  no  ;  I  must  not  tell  him  all  till  we  are 
quite  sure  of  ketchin'  the  rogues.  I  might  lift 
his  hopes  to  disapi^'int  him,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  It  wasn't  that,  father !  But— but  if  you  ^wuld 
only  say  your  own  prejudices  are  removed— that 
cleared  or  condemned,  you  will  give  your  child 
to  him !  Oh,  father,  it  would  be  such  a  comfort 
in  his  prison  1" 

Lucy  began  to  cry  as  she  spoke ;  her  hands 
were  clasped,  and  in  that  pretty  attitude  she 
looked  so  earnest  and  lovely  that  the  old  man 
could  not  have  denied  her  request  had  ho  wished 
it,  so  softened  and  changed  was  his  heart  toward 
her, 

"Yes,  yes;  don't  doubt;  I'll  say  everything 
you  ask !  He's  a  fine  follow,  Lucy  ;  I  was  an  old 
brute  to  treat  him  as  I  did.  Now  give  me  a  kiss, 
child,  and  stop  crying.  God  bless  you!  I'll  come 
back  with  good  news." 

The  old  man  went  his  way,  and  Lucy  returned 
to  the  house,  blessing  her  father,  who  now 
seemed  fully  restored  to  her  in  her  heart  of 
hearts.  « 

The  old  man  had  along  and  tiresome  row,  and 
disappointment  met  him  at  the  end  of  his  jour- 
ney. When  he  entered  the  town  where  Manson 
was  awaiting  his  trial,  and  sought  the  lawyer  who 
had  taken  charge  of  the  case,  he  found  that  prac- 
tical personage  incredulous  of  the  story  he  came 
to  relate.  But  there  was  something  so  earnest 
about  the  old  man  that,  notwithstanding  the 
marvelous  nature  of  his  tale,  the  lawyer  could 
not  wholly  reject  it ;  and  at  last,  after  much  so- 
licitation and  a  promise  of  ample  payment  from 
the  witness,  he  consented  to  return  home  with 
the  old  man,  and  aid  in  searching  Rock  Ruin  for 
the  stolen  treasure. 

After  a  hasty  visit  to  the  jail,  where  he  left 
hope  and  tunshine  behind  him,  the  lawyer  ac- 
companied Jones  to  his  boat,  and  the  old  man 
rowed  homeward  with  a  lightened  heart. 

They  were  fearful  of  being  seen  upon  their 
errand  and  exciting  the  suspicions  of  the  men  at 
the  tavern,  so  they  left  their  boat  some  distance 
below  it,  and  took  a  sort  of  road  through  the 
woods,  cut  for  hauling  logs,  and  which  led  di- 
rectly back  of  Rock  Ruin.  The  walk  was  a 
fatiguing  one,  but  the  old  man  had  always  been 
accustomed  to  rough  ways  and  hard  work,  and 
the  lawyer  was  one  of  those  persona  capable  of 


enduring  anything  for  the  sake  of  attaining  an 
object  he  had  in  view. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  they  came  out  by  tho 
base  of  the  cliff,  and  found  among  the  broken 
branches  and  crushed  ferns  some  slight  evi- 
dence of  the  nocturnal  visit.  Faint  as  these 
traces  were  they  served  to  strengthen  the  confi- 
dence which  the  lawyer  was  beginning  to  feel  in 
the  singular  narrative  of  his  companion. 

He  followed  Jones  through  the  opening  and 
stood  in  the  first  narrow  passage  looking  up  at 
the  sort  of  staircase  in  tne  rock,  so  steep  and 
dangerous  in  the  half  daylight,  that  it  made  the 
lawyer  and  the  old  man  almost  shudder  as  he 
reflected  how  carelessly  he  had  descended  tho 
night  before. 

The  walls  on  every  side  were  rugged  and 
broken,  the  clefts  choked  up  with  moss  and 
fringed  with  creeping  plants.  Through  several 
larger  apertures  higher  up,  that  looked  like  loop- 
hole windows  in  some  half-ruined  tower,  rich 
masses  of  vines  had  forced  themselves  and 
streamed  down  the  sides  a  host  of  emerald  ban- 
ners, rusthng  and  swaying  in  the  chilled  wind 
that  swept  down  from  the  inner  cavern. 

"  Can  you  go  up  ?"  Jones  asked. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  replied  Harvey;  "but  it 
looks  a  little  ticklish,  don't  it  ?" 

"That's  a  fact;  but  I  got  up  safe  last  night, 
and  I  guess  we  can  now— that  ere  vine'll  do  for 
a  bannister." 

"  All  right,  go  ahead,  but  don't  fall  back  on 
me." 

The  old  man,  whose  courage  never  wavered, 
turned  from  time  to  time  in  order  to  aid  or  direct 
the  footsteps  of  his  more  timid  companion,  who, 
nevertheless,  reached  the  platform  somewhat 
pale  and  ready  to  abuse  himself,  and  more  es- 
pecially his  guide,  for  the  pei'il  of  his  condition. 

The  opening  through  which  Jones  had  crept 
was  closed  up  with  a  huge  fragment  of  rock,  but 
after  some  effort  he  succeeded  in  rolling  it 
away,  and  the  lawyer  peered  curiously  into  the 
recess. 

"  It  does  look  as  if  you  hadn't  dreamed  it  all," 
he  said. 

Q*'  Dreamed  it !"  returned  the  old  man,  indig- 
nantly. "  Do  you  think  I'm  a  fool,  or  in  mv  sec- 
ond childhood  ?" 

The  lawyer  laughed  a  little,  saying  : 

"  Go  ahead,  let's  see  what  we  can  find." 

They  made  their  way  through  the  recess  and 
emerged  into  the  large  room  beyond.  The  law- 
yer looked  about  him  in  astonishment.  It  was 
a  beautiful  cavern,  with  its  stalactites  glittering 
in  the  dim  light  which  forced  its  way  through 
the  crevices  and  broken  top,  but  he  turned  with 
a  shudder  from  the  yawning  blackness  which 
met  his  eye  upon  one  side,  and  the  roar  of  the 
hidden  water  had  something  strangely  ominous 
in  it. 

"  I  never  knew  there  was  anything  but  little  re- 
cesses in  this  cliff,"  the  lawyer  said  in  wonder. 

"Nor  anybody  else  except  these  rogues,"  re- 
plied Jones ;  "  years  ago  I've  chased  foxes  in  be- 
low there  many  a  time,  but  never  found  anything 
except  contemptible  httlo  holes  you  couldn't  turn 
round  in." 

"  Well,  now,  let  us  see  what  we  can  find,"  said 
the  lawvQi" ;  "  we  ought  to  have  some  sort  of  re- 
ward after  this  clamber." 

The  room  was  entirely  empty,  except  masses 
of  rock  thathau  fallen  from  overhead,  and  huge 


ROCK  ETIIN;    OR,  THE  DA  UGIITER  OF  THE  IHLAjSI). 


47 


fragments  of  stalactites,  which  had  detached 
themaelvos  from  the  sides,  and  lay  like  great 
piles  of  half-finished  gems  upon  the  floor.  Not 
a  vestige  of  the  table,  plate,  or  anything  pertain- 
ing to  the  revel  of  the  previous  night,  was  to  be 
detected. 

They  searched  in  every  corner,  lifted  the 
stones,  and  investigated  each  nook  or  crevice 
large  enough  to  conceal  a  goblet,  but  all  in  vain. 
No  trace  of  the  stolen  plate  presented  itself.  A 
broken  twig  of  the  vine  which  hung  down  from 
the  top,  a  few  scorched  leaves,  where  the  lamps 
had  hung,  were  all  the  proofs  which  the  disap- 
pointed old  man  could  point  out  that  his  story 
had  not  been  a  sheer  fabrication  from  beginning 
to  end.  But  these  were  something  to  a  man 
whose  life  had  been  spent  in  tracing  important 
facts  from  almost  impalpable  evidence;  and 
once  upon  the  scent,  this  old  hound  of  the  law 
was  not  easily  driven  from  the  chase. 

"Let  us  search— let  us  search,  friend  Jones," 
he  said,  with  great  animation,  pushing  aside  the 
heavy  vines,  hoping  to  discover  some  nook  in  the 
wall.  "  This  fairy  tale  of  yours  ought  to  end  iu 
a  golden  treasure.  Don't  leave  a  hole  undis- 
covered, but  be  careful  not  to  disturb  things  so 
as  to  make  these  fellowsfsuspect  anything  when 
they  come  again." 

"  We  won't  go  till  wo  have  hunted  every  cor- 
ner," replied  Jones,  and  he  was  as  good  as  his 
word.  But  when  the  rude  stones  were  disman- 
tled and  their  naked  age  exposed,  it  was  only  to 
result  in  disappointment.  No  hiding  place  was 
found— nothing  to  direct  the  search  or  excite  sus- 
picion. 

Still  the  two  resolute  men  would  not  be  dis- 
couraged ;  they  went  from  nook  to  nook,  from 
corner  to  corner,  of  the  great  chamber  and  the 
outer  recess,  till  all  the  upper  part  had  been 
thoroughly  explored;  but  nothing  met  their 
eyes  save  the  moonhght  glitter  of  the  stalac- 
tites; no  sound  disturbed  the  stillness  except 
their  own  footsteps  and  the  sullen  roar  of  tne 
water  underneath,  save  when  an  eagle  hovered 
over  the  top  for  an  instant,  and  flew  away  with  a 
shrill  scream  at  the  sight  of  the  intruders. 

They  crept  down  the  rocks  which  they  had  as- 
cended, peering  into  crevices  and  examining 
everytiiing  as  they  went  along,  for,  in  his  eager- 
ness, the  lawyer  had  grown  almost  as  fearless  as 
the  old  man,  until  they  reached  the  ground. 
The  earth  was  lumbered  with  fragments  of  rock 
that  had  fallen  from  above,  great  branches  of 
withered  vines  and  huge  stones,  and  all  the  ac- 
cumulated litter  of  centuries  seemed  to  defy 
their  search. 

Still,  they  began  laboring  among  the  appalling 
mass,  heaving  aside  great  fragments  of  rock,  and 
penetrating  into  each  cavity  that  presented  itself, 
till  the  night  came  on. 

They  found  nothing  but  the  empty  lairs  of 
wild  beasts  and  the  deserted  nests  of  forest 
birds  now,  when  every  foot  of  the  way  had  been 
thoroughly  examined. 

Disheartened,  but  not  altogether  in  despair, 
the  two  men  abandoned  their  search,  and  took 
their  way  back  through  the  forest,  gloomy  with 
the  crimson  haze  of  twilight,  to  the  spot  where 
they  had  left  their  boat.  The)^  rowed  up  the 
river,  keeping  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  island 
from  the  inn,  although  it  was  now  so  dark«rjia,t 
there  was  little  fear  of  being  observed ;  and  not 


long  after  Lucy.Jones  was  startled  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  itf>r  alther  and  a  strange  guest. 

In  his  conversation  with  Mr.  Harvey,  Jones  had 
been  faithful  to  the  confidence  of  his  child.  Not 
a  word  had  crossed  his  lips  of  the  mutual  attach- 
ment that  existed  between  her  and  the  prisoner ; 
but  the  old  lawyer  was  a  quick  observer,  both  by 
nature  and  habit ;  and  while  he  sat  in  the  far- 
mer's easy-chair,  apparently  lost  in;  a  fit  of  mus- 
ing, but  in  truth  watching  every  look  and  motion 
of  the  beautiful  girl,  his  conclusions  were  speed- 
ily drawn.  He  could  not  be  deceived  in  the 
rising  blush,  the  look  of  keen  interest,  and  the 
involuntary  start  that  followed  each  mention  of 
the  prisoner's  name,  or  the  deep  pallor  and  pain, 
too  mtense  for  tears,  that  spread  over  her  face 
when  informed  of  the  complete  failure  of  their 
expedition  to  elucidate  any  proofs  that  might 
help  him  or  give  truth  to  hor  father's  story. 

"  Hem  1"  mused  Mr.  Harvey,  "  so  here  lies  the 
secret  of  it  all  1  This  pretty  girl  loves  the  hand- 
some young  robber;  my  stout  old  friend,  here, 
doats  on  the  girl;  and  so  this  fine  story  has  been 
invented  between  them.  Upon  my  word,  I  have 
been  playing  day  laborer  in  that  old  cavern  to  a 

{)retty  purpose !  I  dare  say  the  little  minx  is 
aughing  at  me  in  her  heart  all  the  time,  demure 
as  she  looks  ;  but  they  shall  pay  for  it.  By  Jove, 
I  will  strip  the  old  fellow's  stocking  of  every  dol- 
lar he  has  hoarded  in  it  I  If  this  story  is  made 
up,  he  shall  suffer  for  it,  or  my  name  isn't  Har- 
vey I" 

Still,  the  old  lawyer  was  not  quite  sure.  The 
girl  looked  so  innocent,  so  touchingly  lovingly, 
that  it  was  hard  even  for  his  suspicious  nature  to 
judge  harshly  of  her ;  and  there  was  the  old 
father,  with  fetern  passions  written  over  his  face, 
but  honest  in  every  lineament.  It  was  no  easy 
matter  to  believe  either  of  these  persons  capable 
of  falsehood  and  fraud;  still,  the  farmer's  story 
was  a  very  marvelous  one,  and  the  proofs  of  its 
truth  very-  meagre  indeed. 

"  And  so,  my  pretty  girl,"  said  the  lawyer, 
drawing  up  to  the  table  to  partake  of  the  repast 
which  Lucy  had  prepared,  and  helping  himself 
deliberately  to  a  slice  of  fragrant  bacon  with  a 
golden  egg  reposing  lusciously  upon  it,  "  and  so 
there  seems  to  be  a  pretty  fair  chance  that  these 
crabbed  laws  of  ours  will  give  your  lover  a  good 
ten  years  in  state-prison." 

Lucy  started  at  the  abrupt  and  seemingly  un- 
feeling speech,  meant  not  in  unkindness,  but  as 
a  probe  to  her  very  heart's  core  ;  and  her  cheek 
blanched,  while  her  father  looked  up  with  stern 
reproof  in  his  countenance. 

"i  trust  not.  Indeed,  I  hope  you  don't  think 
they  will  condemn  him,"  said  Lucy,  in  a  tremu- 
lous voice.  "  The  laws  do  not  punish  an  inno- 
cent man— that  is  impossible  !" 

The  old  lawyer  smiled;  the  simplicity  with 
which  that  young  creature  acknowledged  her 
connection  with  the  prisoner  quite  disarmed  his 
suspicion. 

'•  The  laws  are  not  always  so  considerate  as  you 
seem  to  think,"  he  said ;  "  people  must  not  only 
be  innocent,  but  prove  themselves  so.  Tut,  tut, 
my  girl,  you  need  not  turn  so  white— we  shall  do 
our  best  to  get  this  handsome  young  follow  off. 
Perhaps  something  may  be  made  of  this  adven- 
ture of  last  night.  It  looks  visionary  enough 
now,  but  still  evidence  does  sometimes  spring 
up  in  stranger  places." 

Jones  looked  at  his  visitor  and  instantly  do  • 


48 


BOCK  RUIN;   OR,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


tected  the  lialf-doubting  expression  of  his  face 
when  he  alluded  to  their  expedf  .'-owto  Bock  Ruin. 
For  a  moment  a  ruddy  glow  gathered  around  the 
©Id  man's  eyebrows,  and  it  was  with  a  struggle 
that  he  kept  down  the  indignation  that  swelled 
in  his  heart  with  the  thought  that  his  word  was 
in  anything  doubted. 

"  His  innocence  shall  be  made  as  clear  as  the 
sun  at  noonday  !  I  will  stand  up  in  court  and 
take  oath  to  every  word  that  has  been  said  to 
you  !"  he  exclaimed,  with  emphasis. 

"And  they  will  shut  you  up  as  a  lunatic  for 
your  pains,"  was  the  reflection  Mr.  Harvey  made, 
but  he  only  answered,  "  We  must  think  about 
that— we  must  think  of  it.  That  part  of  your 
story  about  abstracting  the  keys  and  entering 
the  house  would  bring  you  into  trouble  if  the 
court  should  give  it  the  least  credit.  No  man  is 
bound  to  criminate  himself." 

"But  this  young  man  is  the  son  of  my  old 
friend,  and  I  say  he  shall  be  cleared  of  this  ere 
thing  no  matter  what  happens  to  me." 

"  All  wrong— all  wrong  !  It  would  be  a  legal 
suicide,  I  tell  you,"  replied  the  lawyer,  helping 
himself  to  a  slice  of  bread  with  great  deliberation. 
"  Besides,  my  impetuous  friend,  they  would  only 
set  you  down  as  an  accomplice,  so  do  not  venture 
on  that  ground  without  good  legal  advice." 

'*  I  will  tell  the  truth,"  replied  Jones,  reiso- 
lutely,  "the  hull  truth,  and  nothin'  but  the 
truth,  and  they  can  make  the  most  of  it." 

"  Very  well,  very  well,  I  have  not  the  least  ob- 
jection. If  you  have  a  fancy  lor  prison  life,  or 
for  being  lynched,  for  that  might  easily  happen, 
it  is  all  the  same  to  me  —only  what  is  to  become 
of  this  young  girl  when  her  father  and  lover  are 
both  without  the  power  to  protect  her." 

The  farmer  looked  up  at  nis  daughter,  and  his 
firm  lip  began  to  quiver. 

"  If  they  went  to  prison  she  would  find  some 
means  of  being  near  them ;  if  they  were  brutally 
murdered,  as  you  suggest,  God  would  give  her 
strength  to  endure,"  replied  Lucy,  drawing  close 
to  her  father  and  laying  a  hand  upon  his  shoul- 
der. 

The  old  man  turned  his  eyes  from  that  fair, 
young  face  to  the  lawyer,  and  the  latter  remarked 
that  they  were  full  of  tears. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  rising  to  conceal  the 
moisture  that  crept  over  his  own  sight,  "  we  must 
not  let  things  come  to  that  pass  !  Now,  Miss 
Lucy,  if  you  will  show  me  where  I  am  to  sleep  I 
will  think  the  matter  over  after  I  get  to  bed.  I 
trust  we  shall  yet  untangle  the  mystery." 

Lucy  took  up  the  light,  and  leading  the  way  to 
a  bedroom  that  opened  from  the  kitchen,  un- 
closed the  door  for  her  guest. 

"  Good  night,"  said  the  lawyer,  turning  to  re- 
ceive the  lamp  and  pressing  the  little  hand 
warmly  that  presented  it.  "I  shall  be  off  at 
peep  of  day.  Your  father  must  have  a  sharp 
lookout  for  those  scamps  over  at  the  tavern  yon- 
der, and  come  to  me  the  moment  he  has  any 
news.  Keep  a  good  heart,  my  girl,  keep  a  good 
heart." 

With  those  cheering  words  the  lawyer  shut 
himself  in  the  neat  little  room  which  was  ap- 
propriated to  him  for  the  night. 

"Upon  my  word,  a  charming  little  house- 
keeper!" he  mused,  glancing  at  the  muslin  cur- 
tains and  the  pure  white  bed.,  with  its  snow- 
driffc-like  sheets  turned  down  to  roo«ive  him. 

'''  Ancl  the  okt  aiaa,  t'OQ--fea^  ia  a  wiW  story «- 


but  I  can't  look  him  in  the  face  and  believe  it  all 
a  sham,  for  the  life  of  me.  Now,  if  we  could  but 
delay  the  trial  till  after  the  rendezvous  which 
he  says  the  robb^.rs  made— were  the  story  more 
probable  it  might  be  done — but  the  court  is 
nearly  over  and  they  are  bound  to  bring  the  trial 
00  this  term.  Hyatt  has  that  letter  from  Con- 
ner placing  the  matter  in  his  hands.  Upon  my 
word  it  is  a  singular  case,  and  I  can  but  make 
the  best  of  it  for  the  sake  of  that  lovely  child,  if 
nothing  more." 

While  these  reflections  were  passing  through 
the  lawyer's  brain,  he  wound  up  his  watch, 
placed  it  carefully  under  the  snowy  pillow,  and, 

Eroceeding  to  take  off  his  garments,  stepped  into 
ed.  Before  Lucy  Jones  had  breathed  her  even- 
ing prayer  in  the  little  chamber  under  the  roof, 
their  guest  was  sound  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

The  court  term  had  nearly  expired,  and  the 
trial  of  John  Manaon  was  orderedperemptorily. 
Hyatt,  as  the  lawyer  had  stated,  had  produced 
a  letter  from  Mr.  Conner  placing  the  matter 
in  his  hands,  and,  as  he  had  several  times  acted 
as  a  sort  of  agent  for  Jbim,  the  affair  excited  no 
suspicion. 

Mr.  Harvey  had  succeeded  in  having  the  trial 
so  far  put  off,  but  no  longer  delay  could  be  ob- 
tained. 

The  hoiir  at  length  came,  and  the  court  room 
was  crowded,  for  the  amount  of  the  robbery,  the 
high  character  which  the  prisoner  had  hitherto 
borne,  with  his  firm  denial  of  guilt,  had  excited' 
more  than  tbe  ordinary  degree  of  curiosity  elicit- 
ed m  such  cases. 

Through  this  crowd  of  people  young  Manson 
was  brought,  and  arraigned  before  the  open 
court.  Nothing  could  be  more  proper  than  his 
demeanor.  It  blended  all  the  dignity  of  inno- 
cence with  that  keen  distress  which  the  igno- 
miny of  his  situation  was  calculated  to  excite. 
His  cheek  was  pale  ;  now  and  then  his  fine  eyes 
would  sink  beneath  the  broad  gaze  of  the  multi- 
tude ;  but  this  natural  embarrassment  had  no 
shadow  of  guilt  about  it ;  and  when  he  was  called 
upon  to  answer  "  guilty  or  not  guilty  ?"  those 
eyes  were  turned  full  upon  the  jury,  and  his 
voice  sounded  full  and  clear  through  thei whole 
room,  "Not  guilty!"  and  so  the  prisoner  was 
put  upon  his  defence. 

It  seemeJ  as  if  nothing  could  save  him.  The 
proofs  of  guilt  appeared  so  overpowering,  as  link 
after  link  was  added  to  the  chain  of  evidence 
that  seemed  to  coil  around  him  like  a  serpent, 
and  threaten  utterly  to  envelop  and  crush  him. 

The  prisoner's  cheek  grew  still  more  nallid  as 
the  appearance  of  his  guilt  accumulated.  His 
own  friends,  tho'^e  who  had  known  him  from  in- 
fancy, seemed  destined,  against  their  own  will, 
to  accomplish  his  condemnation. 

Old  Mrs.  Jordan  wept  like  a  child  as  she  testi- 
fied to  his  anxious  and  hurried  manner  when  she 
went  to  consult  him  regarding  some  household 
affairs  on  the  night  of  the  robbery.  J- he  busi- 
ness upon  which  she  desired  his  advice  occupied 
them  some  time,"  she  said  ;  "  and  from  the  be- 
ginning he  seemed  unusually  restive  and  absent- 
minded,  making  more  than  one  effort  to  depart, 
and  seeming  greatly  annoyed  when  she  contin- 
ued to  detain  him." 

He  baa  left  the  house  rather  kte  in  the  csvea^ 


BOCK  BUIN;    OB,  THE  BAUGHTEB  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


49 


ing,  sne  testified,  and  that  was  the  last  account 
ehe  could  give  of  his  movements  that  night.  She 
testified  that  the  prisoner  always  had  the  keys  to 
those  rooms  not  mhabited  during  their  master's 
absence,  and  that  no  other  person  could  obtain 
access  to  the  closet  where  the  plate  was  kept 
without  breaking  through  the  door. 

Two  of  the  house  servants  corroborated  this 
testimony,  and  one  of  them  added  that,  instead 
of  going  to  the  building  where  he  slept,  as  he  left 
the  house,  the  prisoner  had  gone  in  an  opposite 
direction,  He  knew  this,  because  the  night  being 
'very  beautiful,  witness  had  been  tempted  to  walk 
forth  after  the  prisoner  took  his  leave  at  the  door. 
The  man  asserted  that,  while  sauntering  about  in 
the  moonlight,  he  had  seen  Manson  walk  rapidly 
across  the  lawn  and  enter  the  woods.  The  wit- 
ness, without  any  definite  reason,  followed  in 
the  same  direction  ;  and  after  wandering  about 
among  the  trees,  was  turning  his  steps  home- 
ward, when  he  was  startled  by  the  sound  of 
voices  in  an  adjoining  hollow.  The  sound' was 
hushed  as  he  approached  the  spot,  but  he  had 
distinctly  counted  the  figures  of  three  men  glid- 
ing away  through  the  trees. 

The  man  continued  to  relate  that  he  should 
have  been  startled  by  the  appearance  of  so  many 
persons  near  the  house  in  the  night  time,  but 
that  he  supposed  them  to  be  some  friends  of 
Manson  among  the  raftsmen  who  had  been 
waiting  while  he  was  up  at  the  house.  "  This," 
the  man  said,  "accounted  to  his  mind  for  the 
anxiety  Manson  had  manifested  to  get  away,  and 
he  thought  no  more  of  the  matter  till  after  the 
robbery.  Then  he  made  inquiries  among  the 
men  stopping  at  the  tavern,  and  the  neighbors 
on  the  shore,  but  nobody  had  been  over  to  the 
island  that  night,  nor  had  any  person  seen  Man- 
son  at  the  tavern," 

All  this  bore  fearfully  against  the  prisoner ;  his 
case  grew  more  and  more  hopeless.  He  felt  that 
all  around  believed  him  guilty.  He  could  not  lift 
his  eyes  without  meeting  the  reproachful  glance 
of  some  old  friend.  It  was  worse  than  the  bit- 
terness of  death  ! 

He  was  innocent,  and  yet  his  courage  gave  way. 
Big  drops  started  on  his  forehead,  and  he  turned 
despondingly  around  in  search  of  one  familiar 
face  which  would  not  accuse  him. 

It  was  there  !  With  her  veil  thrown  back,  and 
her  blue  eyes  bent  tenderly  upon  him,  sat  Lucy 
Jones,  the  noble  girl  who  was  pledged  to  become 
his  wife,  oven  though  all  the  multitude  around 
should  join  in  branding  him  as  a  felon.  How  pale 
and  anxious  she  looked,  and  yet  how  full  of  reso- 
lution were  those  soft  eyes  !  Everv  lineament  of 
that  beautiful  face  beamed  with  holy  compassion 
and  confidence,  so  pure  that  an  angel  might  have 
worn  the  expression  without  impairing  the  glory 
of  his  countenance. 

And  there  stood  the  old  farmer,  resolute  but 
anxious,  with  a  thrill  of  the  keenest  anguish  now 
and  then  sweeping  away  the  stern  composure  of 
his  countenance.  His  eyes  were  turned  at  inter- 
vals upon  the  prisoner,  and  his  fingers  at  such 
times  would  take  a  firmer  grip  on  his  stout  walk- 
ing-stick, which  vibrated  to  the  emotions  that  agi- 
tated him. 

When  Manson  saw  these  two  beings  standing 
there  in  the  court,  and  thought  that  they  were 
the  only  persons  among  the  multitude  who  be* 
liftvod  him  innocent,  hisi  firmneas  gave  way ;  aud 

dropping  hiu  forebeftd  upoa  hie  looked  naocls, 


he  wiped  away  the  tears  that  were  unmanning 
him. 

That  moment,  the  man  who  had  slept  in  the 
same  building  as  Manson  was  brought  to  the 
witness  stand.  The  people  whispered  that  some- 
thing startling  was  to  be  developed,  or  the  pris- 
oner would  not  have  been  so  agitated  all  of  a 
sudden.  The  man  had  but  little  to  say,  and  that 
he  spoke  with  great  reluctance. 

"  Manson  had  left  him  soon  after  nightfall,"  he 
said,  "and  he  saw  no  more  of  him  till  the  next 
morning.  He  slept  on  the  ground  floor,  and  went 
to  bed  early,  but  remained  awake,  thinking  that 
Manson  would  return.  He  had  been  in  bed  per- 
haps an  hour  when  a  noise  in  the  chamber  above 
surprised  him.  It  lasted  but  a  moment,  and  then 
he  distinctlyheard  a  rustling  in  a  cherry-tree  near 
the  window.,ja.nd  the  sound  of  cautious  footsteps 
stealing  from  the  house  ;  but  though  he  got  up 
and  looked,  he  saw  no  one.  Some  time  after,  it 
might  be  an  hour,  or  perhaps  two,  he  heard  Man- 
son  come  in  through  the  outer  room  and  go  up- 
stairs. This  was  all  he  could  tell  of  the  prisoner's 
movements." 

Then  came  the  persons  who  had  found  the 
pieces  of  plate  buried  beneath  a  vine  that  over- 
run the  prisoner's  cottage  ;  and  here  the  coun- 
sel for  the  State  rested  his  case. 

Poor  Manson  !  he  had  scanty  evidence  to  offer 
in  opposition  to  this  array  of  facts.  What  was 
his  previous  good  character  against  the  appear- 
ances thickened  darkly  around  him  ?  Who  could 
he  call  upon  to  prove  that  the  intervals  between 
leaving  the  house  and  retiring  to  his  room  had 
been  spent  in  hurrying  to  Jones'  house  to  keep 
tryst  with  its  lovely  inmate,  and  to  find  the  place 
shut  up,  and  darkness  all  around  ?  Who  would 
prove  that  the  time  he  had  spent  in  attempting 
to  rouse  the  fair  girl,  and  in  wandering  along  the 
edge  of  the  woods,  for  the  mere  pleasure  of 
gazing  upon  the  roof  that  sheltered  her? 

He  had  told  Lucy  of  this,  and  she  believed 
him ;  but  who  else  would  be  found  to  place 
faith  in  the  statement  of  an  accused  man  ?  His 
heart  grew  faint  as  the  time  approached  for  his 
defence.  He  could  not  find  courage  to  look 
upon  the  sweet  face  constantly  turned  toward 
his.  It  was  a  moment  of  terrible  depression  ; 
his  consciousness  of  innocence  seemed  but  a 
poor  support  then.  In  agony  of  spirit  he  groaned 
aloud,  yielding  himself  up  to  the  bitterness  of 
despair. 

The  sound  of  his  agony  smote  upon  Thomas 
Jones'  heart.  The  cane  shook  more  violently 
between  his  hands,  and  forcing  a  passage  to 
the  old  lawyer,  who  seemed  about  to  rise,  he 
whispered, 

"  Now— now  I  can't  keep  silent  any  longer !  I 
will  speak!" 

"  Go  back  to  your  place,  poor  old  fool !"  was 
the  quiet  answer  ;  "  wait  till  you  are  called  for. 
It  is  a  wise  man  that  knows  when  to  speak  and 
when  to  hold  his  tongue.  Just  this  minute, 
Jonea,  you  are  anything  but  a  wise  man." 

While  he  was  saying  this,  the  lawyer  had  not 
changed  his  position  or  looked  upon  the  agitated 
old  man.  No  one  would  have  thought  he  was  at 
all  interested  in  what  was  passing. 

"  But,"  persisted  Jones, 

"But,"  repeated  the  other,  calmly  twisting  a 
piece  of  tap^  arouud  soma  papers.  "  Go  baclc 
to  youf  seat  m^  hold  yoiif  tongue,  or  I  shall 


50 


ROCK  RUIN;   OR,  THE  U AUG II TEE  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


have  a  fancy  to  knock  you  clown  in  the  court- 
room." 

The  farmer  did  not  quite  obey  this  good-na- 
tured rudeness,  but  he  submitted  to  the  most 
important  injunction,  that  of  holding  hia  tongue, 
and  kept  his  place  in  restive  silence. 

The  lawyer  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  open  his 
case.  It  took  him  a  long  time  to  arrange  his 
papers  and  turn  down  the  leaves  in  his  sheep- 
skin books.  At  last  he  ai'ose,  took  out  bis  watch, 
smiled  a  little  on  finding  it  later  than  he  had 
supposed,  and  opened  his  address  to  the  court. 

Nothing  so  irrelevant  had  ever  fallen  from  his 
lips  before.  He  talked  about  everything  but  his 
case ;  grow  poetical,  then  prosy ;  then  dashed 
off  in  a  display  of  wit  that  seeme'^d  quite  uncalled 
for  in  so  grave  a  case,  but  which  kept  all  around 
in  a  state  of  delighted  attention.  A,  shrewd  ob- 
server would  have  said  that  the  old  lawyer  had 
a  purpose  of  his  own  and  carried  it.  It  was  late 
when  he  sat  down,  and  the  court  had  no  time 
to  hear  the  evidence,  which  he  professed  to  have 
in  abundance  to  offer  for  the  defence.  80  the 
trial  was  adjourned  over  to  the  next  day. 

"  There,"  said  the  lawyer,  turning  to  John 
Jones,  with  a  smile,  as  the  prisoner  was  carried 
out,  "  you  see  that  it  reqmres  wisdom  to  know 
when  to  speak.  They  have  got  enough  of  it  this 
time,  I  fancy." 

A  look  of  keen  intelligence  shot  over  the  farm- 
er's face  that  a  moment  before  had  worn  an  ex- 
pression of  contemptuous  dissatisfaction. 

"  Oh,  it  is  getting  through  that  thick  head  of 
yours  at  last,  is  it  ?"  said  Harvey,  gathering  up 
his  hat  and  cane.  "  But  this  is  no  time  for  non- 
sense. You  say  your  daughter  is  going  to  stay 
in  town  to-night— after  dark  you  and  I  must  row 
to  Rock  Ruin  for  the  rendezvous  with  our  friends 
there." 

Jones  started  erect,  and  his  eyes  flashed  be- 
neath their  heavy  brows. 

"  We  shall  find  them  !  Oh,  that  long  speech  of 
yourn— jist  to  think  I  was  cursing  it  in  my  heart 
all  the  while  for  the  craziest  mess  ever  heard. 
Why,  it  will  be  the  salvation  of  poor  Manson  af- 
ter all." 

"Of  course  it  will;  but  bestir  yourself.  I  have 
a  posse  of  men  ready,  and  as  soon  as  possible 
we  must  be  under  way— give  Hyatt  a  chance  to 
go  on  first.  You  see '  I  place  all  credit  in  the 
robbers'  post,  though  others  might  think  it 
smacked  more  of  humbug  than  my  speech  it- 
self." 

"God  grant  the  scoundrels  are  there,"  cried 
Jones.   "  They  will  be— the  Lord  is  helping  us." 

"  He  has  just  found  out  the  heavenly  beauties 
of  that  speech,  though  I  think  the  judge  would 
be  puzzled  to  do  it,"  muttered  the  lawyer,  laugh- 
ing quietly  as  he  walked  out  of  the  court-room. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

An  hour  after  this  conversation,  the  lawyer 
and  John  Jones  were  on  their  way  to  the  boats, 
where  the  constable  and  his  men  awaited  them. 

Mr.  Harvey  had  to  call  at  his  office  first,  and 
as  they  approached  the  steps  they  saw  two  men, 
who  had  just  halted  there.  In  the  proud,  stately 
bearing  of  the  elder  both  recognized  the  master 
of  Star  Island. 

Harvey  hurried  forward  to  meet  them,  and 
they  entered  his  ofBce,  where  Jones  followed  a 
little  shylv,  oppressed  by  the  thought  of  the  con- 
fession wnich  he  must  make  his  employer. 


"  What  is  this  I  hear?"  demanded  Connor,  at 
once.  "  A  robbery  at  my  house !  Manson  arrested 
—on  trial,  and  I  in  ignorance  of  it !  How  is  this, 
Mr.  Harvey,  how  is  this  ?" 

"  The  trial  proceeded  at  your  orders,  sir,"  re- 
plied the  lawyer.  ' '  I  saw  the  letter  you  wrote 
Hyatt  placing  the  matter  in  his  hands." 

"  I  never  wrote  him  a  line  in  my  life,  sir,"  was 
the  prompt  reply. 

"  Then  he  forged  it." 

"Most  likely,^'  replied  Mr.  Conner,  dryly. 
"  But  now  lot  me  hear  the  whole  story — it  is  per- 
fect confusion  in  my  mind  at  present." 

"Tell  me  first,  Jones,"  cried  Gerald,  "if  the 
old  Irishman  is  safe  and  well  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  answered,  stilL  avoiding  Con- 
ner's eye  ;  "  but  he  can't  move  about  yet." 

Conner  gave  a  look  of  intelligence  to  his  son, 
and  then  motioned  the  lawyer  to  proceed. 

Mr.  Harvey  told  the  story  clearly  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  and  John  Jones  revealed  his  share 
of  wrong-doing  with  a  contrite  simplicity  which 
proved  that  he  had  suffered  enough  already  for 
his  obstinacy  and  folly. 

"  There  is  more  here  than  you  understand," 
Conner  said  at  last,  smiling  a  little,  then  giving 
a  sigh  of  pain.  "  You  say,  Jones,  that  the  man 
who  calls  himself  Gorman  is  still  there  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  and  I  believe  he  is  the  worst  of  the 
lot." 

"  I  wonder  if  he  is  only  a  thief  like  the  others," 
mused  the  lawyer. 

"  He  has  been  playing  for  a  great  stake,  and 
has  lost." 

They  were  soon  ready  to  start  on  their  expe- 
dition, and  Conner  and  his  son  accompanied 
them  in  the  boat  which  had  brought  them  up 
the  river. 

It  was  long  after  dark  when  they  passed  Star 
Island,  and  lights  gleamed  out  cheerfully  from 
the  mansion  as  they  came  opposite  it,  but  the 
master  and  his  son  made  no  pause ;  only  the 
boat  containing  their  baggage  halted  there';  the 
others  pushed  rapidly  on  to  Rock  Ruin. 

Conner  did  not  once  address  his  son  after  they 
passed  the  island  ;  he  sat  upright  and  still,  look- 
ing sadly  down  upon  the  waters.  With  so  many 
memories  of  the  old  life  tugging  at  his  heart,  he 
had  no  room  for  words,  mingled  with  hopes  such 
as  never  until  then  had  he  been  able  to  indulge 
during  all  those  long  years  of  exile,  kept  him  al- 
most solemnly  still. 

The  day  had  been  cloudy,  and  there  was  no 
moon,  so  the  night  had  come  on  unusually  dark. 
All  waited  in  breathless  anxiety,  and  every  eye 
was  bent  upon  the  chff  that  loomed  up  before 
them  m  the  darkness,  dark  and  grim  as  a  feudal 
town. 

"  See,  see  !"  cried  Jones,  grasping  young  Con- 
ner's arm.     "  There  is  the  hght !" 

Sure  enough,  at  that  instant  a  faint  glow 
beamed  through  the  heavy  vines  half  way  up 
the  rock,  and  for  a  yard  around  the  leaves 
seemed  bathed  in  gold. 

"  Not  yet,  not  yet,"  said  the  lawyer,  when  the 
whole  party  would  have  started  forward.  "It 
would  be  folly  to  surprise  them  till  they  have  had 
time  to  unearth  the  spoil.  Hark,  they  are  on  the 
ground  floor  among  the  stone.  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  search  that  place  thoroughly." 

In  truth,  the  stillness  was  so  profound  that  the 
watchers  could  all  distinctly  hear  the  crash  of 
huge  stones  falling  back  on  each  other,  mingled 


ROCK  BUIN;   OB,  THE  DAUGHTEB  OF  THE  ISLAND, 


ol 


with  the  jingle  of  metals  and  a  faint  hum  of 
voices. 

"Now,"  whispered  the  lawyer,  "now.  There 
is  only  a  light  from  the  upper  crevices.  Move 
forward,  one  and  all,  but  softly — these  fellows 
have  keen  ears." 

Cautiously,  and  without  breaking  a  twig  or 
branch  in  the  way,  the  group  moved  forward, 
and  one  by  one  crept  through  the  entrance  into 
the  lower  cave.  All  was  dark  there,  and  they 
gathered  around  around  the  entrance,  while 
Jones  crept  softly  up  the  stairs.  He  reached  the 
platform  in  safety,  and  turning  the  bright  side  of 
a  pocket  lantern,  with  which  the  lawyer  had  sup- 
plied him,  lighted  the  rugged  pass  for  the  rest 
to  ascend. 

One  by  one  they  crept  along  the  threatening 
height,  till  one  half  the  number  stood  upon  the 
platform,  headed  by  the  two  Conners,  while  the 
rest,  under  the  guidance  of  the  lawyer,  concealed 
themselves  so  as  to  guard  the  entrance  below. 

Mr.  Conner  bent  his  eye  to  the  crevice  which 
^  Jones  had  found  so  convenient  on  another  occa- 
sion,  and  looked  into  the  room.  Two  men  were 
sitting  upon  some  fragments  of  stone  in  the  cen- 
ter of  the  apartment,  and  two  others  knelt  by  a 
heap  of  plate  and  other  valuables  which  they 
were  dividing  into  separate  parcels. 

One  of  these  men  held  a  lamp,  which,  added  to 
the  glttter  from  the  precious  metal,  threw  a 
broad  light  on  his  face,  and  though  the  others 
were  watching  him  keenly,  the  arch  rogue  con- 
trived to  slide  several  of  the  smaller  articles  into 
his  pocket  without  detection. 

"Now,  fellows,"  Hyatt  was  saying,  "you  must 
all  three  be  off  with  your  share  before  morning, 
or  Gorman  will  be  upon  us  as  sure  as  you  live. 
He  is  furious  at  not  finding  the  will,  and  we  are 
in  a  mighty  ticklish  situation  so  near  him." 

"  I  say.  Smith,  neither  you  nor  Hyatt  have  a 
right  to  these  goblets,"  cried  one  of  the  men, 
without  heeding  this  speech,  "  so  just  put  them 
on  the  other  heap.  Blake  and  I  are  both  sober 
ar8  judges  to-night,  so  you  needn't  expect  to 
overreach  us." 

"  I  have  made  a  fair  division,"  said  Smith, 
holding  the  goblet  irresolutely  in  his  hand,  and 
looking  ai  Hyatt,  who  turned  angrily  around. 

"None  of  your  black  looks,"  cried  the  man. 
"We  brought  four  of  those  goblets  from  the 
old  house,  just  one  apiece.  If  you  and  Smith 
chose  to  bury  yours  under  that  young  fellow's 
grape-vine  in  order  to  send  him  to  prison,  it  was 
no  affair  of  ours.  You  had  your  motives  and 
,  must  pay  for  them.  Those  two  goblets  fall  to  us, 
I  say;  so  pitch  them  on  the  other  heap  and  it  will 
save  trouble." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  scoundrel !"  cried 
Hyatt,  turning  fiercely  upon  the  speaker.  "How 
dare  you  talk  like  that  1 

"Hush!"  said  Smith,  forcing  Hyatt  to  his 
knees  again.  "Let  them  have  the  cups;  we 
won't  quarrel  among  ourselves." 

"  But  we  may  quarrel  anyhow,"  said  Blake. 
"I  tell  you,  Hvatt,  we  may'join  you  willingly 
enough  in  the  robbery  of  a  rich  man,  but  when 
L  it  comes  to  sending  an  innocent,  first  rate  fellow 
to  prison,  or  allowing  him  to  be  lynched  for  our 
follies,  it's  a  little  too  rough." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  cried  Hyatt,  turning 
white  with  rage.  "  I've  sent  no  man  to  prison— 
\  want  nobody  lynched." 

"No,"  replied  the  other,  with  a  bitter  laugh  ; 


"you  didn't  wheedle  us  out  of  the  cups  tofatiton 
guilt  on  John  Manson  !  You  didn't  sow  suspicion 
against  him,  and  forge  a  letter  from  old  Conner 
placmg  the  affair  in  your  hands  I  I  saw  the  poor 
fellow  m  court  to-day,  and  that  pretty  girl  with 
her  mournful  eyes.  It  was  enough  to  make  an 
honest  man  of  me.  By  the  Lord,  I'd  half  a  mind 
to  quit  the  concern  altogether,  come  out  like  a 
man  and  tell  the  whole." 

"  You  were  ?"  said  Hyatt,  and  his  eyes  began 
to  gleam  more  fiercely  ;  "  you  were,  eh  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  was,  and  may  yet,  if  you  put  on  that 
air  too  often.  I  am  not  to  be  bullied,  my  friend, 
I  can  tell  you  that  to  begin  with." 

Hyatt  sprang  upon  the  young  man  like  a  tiger, 
but  Smith  seized  him  with  both  powerful  arms, 
and  dragged  him  back  to  the  floor. 

"None  of  this;  Hyatt  was  not  in  earnest;  he 
didn't  intend  to  strike  you,  Blake.  There,  take 
the  goblets  and  be  friends." 

Smith  flung  the  goblets  on  Blake's  share  of  the 
spoil,  and  bending  down  to  Hyatt,  whispered  in 
his  ear.  Hyfttt  started  up  and  ofiered  his  hand 
to  Blake. 

"You  are  right— the  cups  all  belong  to  your 
portion— let  the  matter  drop." 

Blake  still  remained  sullen,  and  rejected  the 
proffered  hand.  Smith  and  Hyatt  exchanged 
glances. 

"  Well,  well,  we  shall  be  better  friends  before 
the  next  rich  job  presents  itself,"  said  Smith. 
"  Now  let  each  take  his  share  and  be  off." 

"  He  will  betray  us,"  whispered  Smith,  as 
Blake  and  his  companion  were  loading  them- 
selves with  plunder. 

"  If  he  lives  to  do  it !"  and  Hyatt  hfted  his  ser- 
pent eyes  with  a  look  that  made  even  the  stout 
robber  recoil.  It  was  but  a  momentary  glance, 
and  then  Hyatt  began  like  the  others  to  gather 
up  his  share  of  the  valuables. 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  voice  from  below,  call- 
ing his  name  in  a  loud,  commanding  tone,  from 
below : 

"Hyatt!  Hyatt!" 

"  That's  Gorman,"  he  said,  "  curse  him  1  How 
did  he  find  out  we  were  here.  Shove  the  things 
out  of  the  way." 

While  the  others  were  obeying  this  order,  he 
passed  through  the  recess,  and  held  a  light  out 
over  the  platform.  The  rays  fell  upon  Gorman 
as  he  stood  in  the  lower  cavern,  but  no  other 
human  form  was  visible,  although  near  enough 
to  have  touched  him  were  crouched  the  lawyer 
and  his  party. 

The  crafty  old  lawyer  had  heard  the  sound  of 
■oars  in  the  water,  and  had  plenty  of  time  to  give 
his  companions  above  notice  to  keep  perfectly 
still  in  their  retreat,  while  he  concealed  himself 
and  the  men  under  his  charge  behind  a  great 
rock  at  one  end  of  the  lower  cavern. 

So  Hyatt  looked  down  and  saw  only  that  man, 
although  when  he  recognized  the  smothered  pas- 
sion in  his  face,  white  and  terrible  in  that  strange 
light,  he  would  almost  rather,  perhaps,  have  met 
justice  itself,  for  like  all  bullies,  he  was  a  coward 
at  heart. 

"Is  that  you,  Mr.  Gorman?"  he  asked  in  a 
tone  of  surprise. 

"  Yes— why  ,  not  ?  Did  you  think  I  couldn't 
find  my  way  to  your  rat's  den?" 

Hyatt  did  not  answer  the  question,  but  asked : 

"  Will  you  come  up  hero  ?'^ 

"  Of  course  I  will— hold  the  light  lower  down." 


52 


ttoOK  ntfiM;  on,  Tim  dauoiitjer  of  the  Island. 


Hyatt  chafed  under  the  tone  of  insolent  com- 
mand, but  obeyed  without  a  word. 

"  Shall  I  come  down  part  way  and  help  you?" 
he  inquired. 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,  Mr.  Hyatt,  but  I  fancy 
that  I  shall  get  up  quite  as  rapidly  without  help," 
sneered  the  other,  commencing  the  ascent  with 
reckless  haste. 

If  a  look  could  have  flung  him  to  the  bottom, 
that  man  had  never  reached  the  platform  ahve. 
Just  as  he  reached  the  most  dangerous  place, 
Hyatt  artfully  moved  the  lamp  so  that  the  dan- 
ger was  partially  hidden,  and  a  single  misstep 
would  have  consigned  him  to  an  instant  and 
horrible  death,  but  Hyatt  had  to  deal  with  a 
spirit  that  knew  no  fear. 

Gorman  caught  hold  of  the  vine,  and  bal- 
anced himself,  calling  out  in  an  easy  tone  : 

"  Mr.  Hyatt,  if  you  don't  hold  that  light  so  I 
can  see,  1  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  wringing 
your  neck  when  I  reach  the  plaiform." 

There  was  a  laugh  from  Blake  within  which 
chafed  Hyatt  beyond  endurance,  but  he  changed 
the  position  of  the  light,  and  in  a  moment  Gor- 
man stood  in  safety  by  his  side. 

"  Pass  on,"  he  said,  curtly,  and  Hyatt  crouched 
through  the  recess  and  he  followed. 

Once  in  the  chamber,  Gorman  looked  keenly 
round,  taking  in  every  object  with  that  keen 
gaze. 

"  So  I  have  heard  the  truth,  Mr.  Hyatt,"  he 
said,  '•  you  are  preparing  to  leave  this  place  ?" 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  stammered  Hyatt, 
"  we  only  met  here  to  settle  our  own  affairs'" 

"  Blake,"  called  out  Gorman,  "  you  are  going 
to-morrow,  are  you  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  ho  answered. 

Hyatt  gave  him  a  venomous  scowl,  which 
Blake  repaid  with  a  look  of  defiance. 

"I  knew  you  lied  !"  said  Gorman,  quietly. 

"  You're  a  bold  man  to  come  here  and  talk  in 
this  tone  I"  hissed  Hyatt,  unable  to  control  his 
rage. 

"Bah !  I  know  you  are  a  coward!"  returned 
he;  "moreover,  if  you  raised  your  hand,  I 
should  have  at  least  two  of  your  men  on  my 
side,"  and  he  pointed  to  Blake  and  Hinson. 
"  You  see,  Mr.  Hyatt,  I  am  quite  a  match  for 
you." 

"  So  they  are  the  traitors !"  snarled  Hyatt ; 
"they  told  you  of  this  place.  Never  mind,  it 
will  be  my  turn  next  1" 

"  You  have  kept  me  hero  with  false  promises," 
continued  Gorman;  "you  have  lied  without 
stint.  You  never  meant  to  help  me  to  find  that 
will— you  only  wanted  to  steal  that  silver,  like  a 
beggarly  thief,  as  you  are  !" 

"  I'd  "as  lief  steal  silver  as  a  will !"  retorted 
Hyatt. 

"  I  was  in  search  of  what  is  rightfully  my  own," 
replied  Gorman.  "  I  only  made  the  mistake  of 
employing  such  a  pitiful  knave  as  you.  I  made 
you  an  offer,  which  would  have  been  a  fortune  to 
you,  but  you  could  not  resist  your  natural  trick- 
ery. If  I  had  trusted  these  men  instead  of  you 
I  should  have  succeeded." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Blake ;  "  but  he  meant  to 
keep  all  the  money  himself— that's  what  he  calls 
being  fair  with  comrades." 

Hyatt  chafed  and  snarled  like  a  wild  beast ;  for 
an  instant  it  seemod  as  if  he  would  have  sprung 
upon  Gorman,  but  a  second  glance  at  that  stal- 


wart form,  with  the  right  hand  clutching  a  re- 
volver, restrained  him. 

"Smith,"  be  cried,  "  do  you  mean  to  see  me 
stand  alone  ?" 

"Oh,"  returned  Smith,  coolly,  "you  haven't 
been  exactly  on  the  square  with  us.  You  know 
Mr.  Gorman  has  been  paying  you  large  sums  of 
money  all  along,  and  nary  red  has  ever  come  our 
way;  indeed,  we  knew  nothing  about  it  until  after 
the  night  wo  were  up  at  Conner's  house." 

"  These  men,"  pursued  Gorman,  "  would  have 
dealt  honorably  by  me  ;  they  would  not  have  run 
the  risk  of  involving  me  in  a  robbery  when  I  was 
ready  to  pay  them  more  than  they  could  gain  by 
it." 

"  I  did  my  best  for  vou,"  said  Hyatt.  "  I  could 
not  tell  where  the  will  might  be  any  more  than 
you.   It  may  not  be  too  late  yet— we  may  find  it." 

"  Tush  !  '  Conner  will  be  here  very  soon,  and 
you  know  it." 

"  Why  not  try  to-night,"  suggested  Smith.  "  It 
I  had  my  way  I  should  go  into  the  old  man's 
room  and  choke  his  secret  out  of  him.  Ten  to 
one  the  will  is  hidden  under  his  mattress  or  the 
carpet ;  he'd  choose  just  such  a  place  ;  but  he'd 
give  it  up  sooner  than  be  throttled  till  the  breath 
was  quite  out  of  his  body." 

"  Will  you  do  this  ?"  asked  German. 

"  I'll  try  it  if  I'm  paid." 

"  And  we'll  help  him,"  added  the  other  two. 

"  Name  your  own  sum,"  said  Gorman,  "  and 
when  the  will  is  in  my  hands  it  is  yours." 

"  I  am  quite  ready  to  make  another  trial,"  said 
Hyatt ;  "  I  have  never  refused." 

Gorman  made  him  a  bow  of  ironical  respect. 

"  I  really  must  decline  your  valuable  assist- 
ance, Mr.  Hyatt,"  he  said;  "I  have  had  quite 
enough  of  it." 

"  And  do  you  suppose  I'll  let  you  go  without 
me  ?"  retorted  Hyatt. 

"  I  don't  fancy  that  you  will  have  any  choice 
in  the  matter,"  replied  Gorman,  coolly. 

"  And  who'll  hinder  me  ?" 

"  I  shall !"  he  replied,  with  the  most  danger- 
ous calmness. 

With  a  terrible  oath  Hyatt  sprang  forward  and 
closed  in  with  him.  There  was  an  instant's  ter- 
rific struggle,  during  which  both  fell  to  the  floor ; 
but  before  the  three  men  could  separate  them,  a 
loud  voice  from  without  pronounced  the  word : 

"Now!" 

In  an  instant  the  room  was  full  of  men,  and 
blazing  with  light  from  the  lanterns  they  had 
kindled  as  they  entered. 

Hyatt  released  his  hold  of  Gorman,  who  sprang 
to  his  feet,  and  stood  at  the  further  side  of  the 
cavern,  his  eyes  blazing,  his  right  hand  grasping 
his  pistol,  and  looldng  like  a  mad  animal  at  bay. 

"Let  me  seothis  man  !"  cried  Mr.  Conner,  ap- 
proaching him  with  a  light.  "  It  is  as  I  sup- 
posed—my evil-liearted  cousin  !"  he  exclaimed, 
as  the  light  fell  upon  his  features.  "  Worthy  of 
your  father— leagued  with  felons — a  criminal 
yourself!" 

The  man  sprang  forward  with  a  cry  of  insane 
passion— there  was  murder  in  his  look,  and 
several  of  the  men  started  forward  to  seize  him. 

Gorman  started  back,  snarling  viciously.  His 
face  was  ghastly,  his  white  teeth  glistened  be- 
neath the  half- uplifted  lip.  He  vibrated  upon  the 
very  edge  of  the  abyss  unconscious  of  his  awful 
danger. 

A  warning  cry  broke  from  the  horror-stricken 


BOOK  RUIN;   OR,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


53 


men.  He  heard  it,  and  half  turned  his  white  face 
to  look  back  at  the  danger,  and  with  a  howl  of 
fear  attempted  to  plunge  forward,  but  terror  had 
paralyzed  him— his  arms  were  flung  out,  but  his 
feet  were  powerlessly  sliding  from  under  him. 
One  fearful  lunge,  a  wild  grasp  in  the  air,  and  a 
slow,  sullen  plunge,  followed  by  a  shriek  so  aw- 
ful that  the  human  souls  that  heard  it  never  for- 
got the  sound,  and  the  evil  man  was  gone— the 
darkness  had  engulfed  him.  The  sullen  roar 
of  the  waters  came  up  from  the  cavernous  depths 
where  he  had  been  hurled,  like  the  far-off  howl 
of  wild  animals  quarrelling  over  their  prey. 

Slowly,  like  a  troop  of  ghosts,  that  group  of 
men  crept  to  the  brinK  of  tne  abyss,  and  flashed 
their  lanterns  down  its  impenetrable  darkness, 
but  the  cry  was  not  repeated— only  the  sullen 
roar  of  the  unseen  waters  alone  met  their  ears ! 

The  four  robbers  atood  motionless  and  white 
as  death,  each  pinioned  between  two  men  white 
and  horror-stricken  as  himself.  Not  a  word  was 
spoken,  not  a  breath  was  audible— the  profound 
stillness  seemed  more  awful  than  the  shriek 
had  been. 

Cautiously  and  tremblingly  the  men  let  them- 
selves down  that  fearful  descent,  captors  and 
criminals  aiding  each  other,  like  friends  in  mu- 
tual peril. 

In  silence  they  abandoned  Rock  Ruin ;  now 
and  then  the  constable  gave  an  order  under  his 
breath,  but  this  was  all. 

They  rowed  slowly  down  the  river,  oppressed 
by  the  awful  scene  they  had  witnessed,  and  at 
the  island  the  two  Conners  landed,  accompanied 
by  the  lawyer,  while  the  other  boats  swept  on 
down  the  stream,  bearing  the  wretched  criminals 
to  justice. 

Before  they  reached  the  house  the  news  of  the 
master's  arrival  had  reached  it,  and' the  domes- 
tics stood  grouped  in  the  hall,  after  the  fashion 
of  his  early  home,  to  receive  him. 

While  he  was  speaking  to  the  housekeeper,  a 
voice  of  wild  pathos  sounded  from  above  the 
stairs. 

"  Master,  have  you  come  ?    Master !  master !" 

"  It's  the  old  Irishman,"  Mrs.  Jordan  said ; 
"  he  heard  you  were  here,  and  is  trying  to  drag 
himself  down-stairs." 

Conner  sprang  up  the  stairs,  followed  by  his 
son,  and  half  the  household  followed,  oppressed 
by  a  sudden  sense  of  misery. 

The  old  man  was  crouching,  partially  dressed, 
against  the  bannisters,  and  as  Conner  ap- 
proached he  put  his  hands  above  his  eyes  and 
stared  down  at  him  with  a  countenance  so  full 
of  devotion,  so  strangely  eloquent,  that  it  seemed 
more  than  human. 

"  Robert !"  Conner  exclaimed  in  wonder.  "  Is 
it  you,  Robert?" 

The  old  man  gave  a  low,  joyous  sob,  and  fell  at 
his  master's  feet,  embracing  his  knees  with  his 
old,  trembling  hands. 

"I  have  found  him  !  I  have  kept  my  oath! 
The  will  is  here — the  will— master— master,  you 
are  Earl  of  Enruth  now  !" 

And  all  that  while  the  mutilated  body  of  the 
poor  wretch  who  had  dared  so  much  for  worldly 


gain,  floated  down  the  unseen  waters,  looking 
mournfully  against  the  underground  rocks,  while 
the  band  of  robbers,  of  whom  he  had  been  at 
once  master  and  dupe,  wore  borne  swiftly  on  to 
a  just  and  sure  retribution  for  their  crimes. 

You  should  have  heard  the  shout  that  went  up 
in  the  court  room  when  John  Manson  was  de- 
clared "  not  guilty."  You  should  have  seen  John 
Jones  standing  there  pressing  the  young  man's 
hand  in  his  with  the  grip  of  a  vise,  while  the  hot 
tears  went  streaming  down  his  cheeks  like  rain 
upon  the  embrowned  leaves  of  autumn.  You  > 
should  have  seen  that  lovely  girl,  Lucy  Jones, 
with  her  blue  eyes  shining  like  humid  violets, 
and  those  bright  lips  all  in  a  quiver  of  holy  joy  ! 

Then  again  you  should  have  been  up  at  the 
great  house  on  the  wedding-day,  for  tne  earl 
would  allow  them  to  be  married  from  no  meaner 
place.  Such  a  day !  It  seemed  made  on  pur- 
pose for  them.  Never  were  flowers  so  bright  as 
those  that  caught  the  breeze  that  morning.  You 
might  have  found  violets  on  the  river's  bank, 
that  scented  everything  about  till  the  very  grass 
that  hid  them  was  bathed  in  fragrance. 

The  spicy  breath  of  the  honeysuckles  came 
sweeping  in  from  the  open  windows,  and  moss 
roses,  with  their  delicious  fragrance,  just  such  as 
Mrs.  Jordan  rifled  the  bushes  of  to  make  a  gar- 
land for  Lucy's  head,  and  there  they  bloomed 
among  those  beautiful  tresses,  with  the  faintest 
blush  slumbering  at  the  core,  as  if  the  moss  had 
caught  fire  and  was  just  beginning  to  kindle. 

The  old  lawyer  stood  rubbing  his  hands  to- 
gether when  the  lovely  girl  came  forth,  with  her 
bridal  dress  relieved  with  ribbons  of  the  faintest 
rose  color,  and  the  prettiest  blush  coming  and 
going  on  her  cheek. 

Altogether  it  was  a  day  worth  remembering,  I 
can  assure  you.  As  for  Manson,  his  fine  face  was 
all  in  a  glow  of  happiness  ;  and  the  old  lawyer's 
heart  was  so  mellowed  and  warmed  up  that  be- 
fore the  company  dispersed  he  slipped  a  little 
parcel  into  Lucy  s  hand,  which  on  opening  she 
found  to  contain  exactly  the  number  of  gold 
pieces  which  had  been  paid  him  for  that  long 
speech  ;  and  this  being  the  first  instance,  within 
my  knowledge,  of  a  lawyer  relinquishing  a  fee 
once  obtained,  I  feel,  in  duty  bound,  to  give  it 
honorable  record. 

Altogether  it  was  one  ot  the  pleasantost  wed- 
dings that  it  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  chron- 
icle, of  that  I  am  perfectly  satisfied. 

After  awhile,  when  the  Earl  of  Enruth  had 
taken  possession  of  his  inheritance  in  the  old 
land,  John  Manson  and  his  jewel  of  a  wife  be- 
came favored  tenants  of  the  house  on  Star  Isl- 
and, and  a  right  pleasant  home  it  was,  so  pleasant 
that  when  the  young  heir  married  a  high-born 
lady  of  his  own  land,  the  couple  took  a  long 
bridal  trip  over  the  Atlantic,  and  far  away  down 
that  Western  river.  So  far  as  matrimonial  rec- 
ords have  come  within  my  knowledge,  there 
never  has  never  been  a  happier  honeymoon 
than  that  which  they  spent  on  Star  Island,  with 
our  friend  Lucy  for  a  hostess,  and  Rock  Ruin 
frowning  upon  tnem  from  the  distant  shore. 


[the  end.] 


The  Widow  s  Son. 


By  Mi?s.  EMMA  D.  K.  K.  SOUTHWORTH. 


Ye  fearful  souls  fresh  cottrage  take ; 

The  cloud  ye  so  much  dread 
Is  big  with  mercy,  and  shall  break 

In  blessings  on  your  heml.— watts. 

H,  dear !  what  has 
become       of      my 

Furse  ?    Where  did 
leave  it?    I  am 
sure  I  had  it  when 
I    left    Dr.    Bald- 
win's,"   exclaimed 
Mrs.      Sherbourne 
in    trepidation,    as 
she    hurriedly 
searched  her  pock- 
her  caba,   and 
her    muff   without 
finding     the     lost 
treasure.    She  had  just  returned 
from  making  a  morning  call. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?"  in- 
quired her  sister  Mary. 

"Oh!    nowhere  at  all  but  to 
Dr.  Baldwin's.     Oh  !    dear  me  ! 
where  coTild  I  have  dropped  my  purse  ?" 
she  repeated,  in  much  distress,  renew- 
ing her  search. 
"Was  there  much  in  it ?"  inquired  Mary,  in 
alarm. 

"Only  sixteen  dollars;  but  the  purse,  oh,  the 
■purse.  I  would  not  have  lost  it  for  double  the 
amount  of  money  it  contained." 

"  Was  it  so  valuable,  then,  my  dear?"  in- 
quired Mrs.  Martin,  an  old  lady  who  was  mak- 
ing a  morning  visit. 

"  Oh !  dear  me,  yes,  Mrs.  Martin,  it  was  inval- 
uable to  me.  I  loved  that  purse  as  if  it  had 
been  alive." 

"  Oh !  was  it  that  most  elegant  green  and  gold 
one  I  have  seen  you  with— the  most  beautiful 
purse  I  ever  saw  in  my  life." 

"  Oh,  yes,  that  was  the  one,  and  I  liked  it  for 
its  rare  beauty  ;  but  I  loved  it  because  it  was  the 
work  of  my  dear,  dear  Nelly  Moreland,  who  knit 
it  for  me  before  she  went  to  California  with  her 
husband.  I  would  not  have  taken  its  weight  in 
precious  stones  for  it.  Ohl  my  poor,  dear 
purse,"  said  the  lady,  with  the  tears  springing 
into  her  eyes. 

"  Are  you  very  sure  that  you  did  not  leave  it 
at  Dr.  Baldwin's,"  asked  Mary. 

"  Absolutely  certain.  I  always  carry  it  hang- 
ing across  my  glove,  because  I  love  to  look  at  it 
— it  is  such  a  beauty,  and  then  it  was  dear  Nelly's 
work,  And  I  remember,  now,  perfectly,  admir- 
ing its  effect  hanging  over  my  drab  glove  as  I 
came  down  Seventh  Street.  And  that  is  the  last 
that  I  remember  of  it.  Oh  dear !  I  would  give 
anything  I  possess  only  to  see  it  once  more; 
how  could  I  have  been  so  careless  with  my 
beauty  of  a  purse  ?" 

'•  Well,  my  dear,  you  will  have  to  advertise 
it,  that  is  all,"  said  Mrs.  Martin. 


"Oh,  of  course,  I  do  intend  to  advertise  it; 
but,  dear  me,  I  have  very  little  hope.  People 
scarcely  over  get  back  their  lost  things  that  way, 
or  any  other  way,  except  accidentally." 

"  Providentially, "  said  the  old  lady. 

"  Well,  providentially,  then  ;  but  at  any  rate 
I  will  advertise,  as  it  is  the  anly  chance." 

And  so,  without  stopping  to  rest,  the  lady 
tied  her  bonnet  strings,  drew  her  shawl  around 
her,  and  went  down  to  the  office  of  the  Intelli- 
gencer to  have  the  advertisement  of  the  lost 
purse  put  in.  Then  she  returned  h^ome  and 
awaited  the  result.  But  day  after  day  passed, 
until  a  month  had  gone  by,  without  any  intelli- 
gence of  a  purse  found.  At  length  the  lady  took 
the  advertisement  out  of  the  paper  and  gave  up 
all  hopes  of  its  recovery. 

About  this  time  there  was  a  very  poor  widow 
with  two  children,  a  boy  of  twelve  and  a  girl  of 
eight.  The  name  of  her  son  was  Charley  and 
that  of  her  daughter  was  Bessie.  They  lived  in 
an  old  broken  down  house  on  Seventh  Street. 
The  poor  widow  tried  to  support  herself  and 
children  by  eewing ;  but  needlework  is  very 
tedious,  and  seamstresses  are  never  half  paid 
for  their  labor,  and  little  as  their  pay  is  they 
often  have  to  wait  for  it  even  when  they  are  in 
great  need.,  And  so  you  may  be  sure  that  Mrs. 
Norton  was  frequently  in  great  distress  for  the 
common  necessaries  of  life.  Thus  it  was  with 
her  now.  The  winter  was  excessively  cold ; 
wood  was  eight  dollars  a  cord,  flour  was  twelve 
dollars  a  barrel,  meat  and  vegetables  were  at 
famine  jji-ices.  Even  the  rich  felt  the  pressure 
and  complained  heavily.  How  much  more, 
then,  must  the  poor  have  felt  it?  And  how 
much  must  this  destitute  widow  and  her  chil- 
dren have  suffered  ?  Work  was  very  scarce,  pay 
was  very  low,  and  was  long  in  coming.  The 
poor  widow  and  her  children  grew  thin,  and 
pale,  and  weak  from  cold  and  hunger. 

On  this  Saturday,  in  particular,  the  day  was 
piercingly  cold.  The  snow  was  two  feet  deep  on 
the  ground.  The  Vidow  was  sitting  at  work  in 
her  room  without  a  spark  of  fire  on  the  hearth 
or  a  mouthful  of  food  in  the  cupboard.  She  often 
had  to  stop  and  blow  and  clap  her  hands  to 
keep  them  from  freezing,  while  they  were  so 
numb  that  she  could  scarcely  sew  the  buttons  on 
the  shirt  that  she  was  finishing. 

Little  Bessie  was  ill  in  bed,  and  Charlie  was 
standing  watching  his  mother  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  and  waiting  to  take  that  work  home.  His 
clothes  were  very  old  and  patched  all  over,  but 
they  were  scrupulously  clean.  His  shoes  were 
so  worn  out  and  broken  that  his  toes  came 
through.  Poor  Charlie  was  ill  protected  against 
the  j5iercing  cold  and  deep  snow  that  he  would 
have  to  brave.    And  he  so  thin  and  pale,  too. 

"What's  the  matter,  Charley  ?"  inquired  his 
mother,  when  she  saw  the  tears  running  down 
his  cheeks. 


THE  WIDOW'S  SON. 


"Oh,  mother,  I  can't  help  crying  to  see  you 
wt>rk  80  hard,  and  see  little  Bessie  bo  ill,  and 
think  how  I  can't  get  anything  to  do  to  help  either 
of  you." 

"  It  is  of  no  use  to  cry,  Charlie.  We  must  bear 
euiiering  and  do  the  best  we  can,  and  trust  in  the 
Lord  to  send  us  better  times.  Here,  now,  take 
this  work  and  run  home  with  it  to  Mr.  Taylor. 
Ask  him  to  pay  you  the  four  shillings  he  owes  us, 
and  then,  when  you  get  it,  run  around  to  the 
lumber  yard,  and  ask  Mr.  Wood  please  to  be  so 
accommodating  as  to  sell  us  a  wheelbarrow  of 

f)iue,  as  we  cannot  spare  the  change  to  get  a 
arger  quantity.  Then  go  to  Mr.  Baker's,  and 
get  a  shilling's  worth  of  corn  meal,  and  a  six- 
pence worth  of  salt  herring,  and  half  a  pound  of 
rice,  to  make  a  pudding  for  little  Bessie.  And 
make  haste  home,  my  boy,  for  you,  too,  need 
food  and  warmth,"  said  the  widow,  as  she  fin- 
ished roiling  up  the  bundle  and  gave  it  to  her 
son. 

Charley  took  it,  and  ran  as  fast  as  he  could  to 
Mr.  Taylor's  clothing  store,  and  asked  for  the 
master. 

Mr.  Taylor  came  forward. 

"  Here  is  the  work  finished,  sir.  Mother  says 
she  hopes  you'll  like  it." 

Mr.  Taylor  unrolled  the  parcel,  looked  at  it, 
and  said  : 

"  Hump  !  it  will  do  ;"  and  threw  it  to  one  of 
the  shop  boys  to  put  away. 

"  Mother  says  will  you  please  let  her  have  the 
money,  sir,  as  she  has  nothing  in  the  house  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  never  pay  my  work  people  until  their 
wages  run  up  to  five  dollars.  I  cannot  be  both- 
ered with  small  accounts.  Your  mother  ought 
to  have  known  that." 

"  But  she  didn't,  sir  ;  this  is  the. ^rs^  work  she 
ever  did  for  you,  and  you  never  told  her." 

"And  it  shall  be  Xholast  work  she  will  ever  do 
for  me,  if  I  am  to  be  badgered  this  way,"  said 
the  merchant,  turning  off  to  wait  upon  a  cus- 
tomer, who  was  just  entering. 

Poor  Charley  was  too  retiring  and  modest  to 
urge  his  mother's  just  claims  ;  and  so,  with  a 
downcast  look  and  a  sinkiag  heart,  he  turned 
away  from  the  shop. 

It  was  now  the  middle  of  the  afternoon.  The 
snow  had  been  cleared  from  the  pavement,  and 
stood  piled  up  along  its  edges  like  a  miniature 
range  of  mountains.  The  bricks  were  dry,  and 
though  it  was  still  bitingly  cold,  the  pavement 
was  thronged  with  passengers— men  wrapped 
up  in  comfortable  great  coats  and  mauds  ;  ladies 
enveloped  in  cloth  and  velvet  and  furs,  and 
children  covered  with  merino,  and  swans'  down 
and  chinchilli — everybody  well  defended  against 
the  freezing  atmosphere,  excepting  only  Char- 
ley and  one  or  two  other  unfortunates  like  him- 
self. 

He  walked  along  with  his  bare  hands  tucked 
into  his  empty  pockets,  his  heart  sinking  with 
disappointment  and  grief,  and  his  frame  half 
fainting  with  cold  and  hunger.  He  could  not 
bear  to  go  home  empty-handed  to  his  poor 
mother  and  suffering  little  sister.  He  resolved 
to  walk  about  and  seek  some  job  of  shoveling 
off  snow,  or  putting  in  coal  or  wood,  or  anv- 
thing,  in  fact,  that  he  could  find  to  do.  He 
turned  off  the  gay  avenue  into  Seventh  Street, 
that  was  comparatively  quiet,  and  where  the 
snow  still  lay  upon  the  pavement,  with  only  a 
foot-path  beaten  through  it.  As  he  walked  slow- 


ly up  the  street  he  stopped  at  various  stores  to 
inquire  if  the  proprietors  wanted  snow  shoveled 
from  before  their  doors  ;  but  he  was  always 
either  answered  "No,"  or  bluntly  told  to  go 
about  his  business.  So  he  walked  on  out  Sev- 
enth Street  until  the  houses  grew  scarcer  and 
the  sidewalks  more  deserted. 

At  length,  on  the  snow  path  stretching  before 
him,  he  saw  some  brilliant  object  glittering  in 
the  sun  ;  it  looked  like  some  bright-scaled  ser- 
pent coiled  up,  or  some  beautiful  plumagcd 
bird  fallen  there.  He  quickened  his  steps, 
reached  the  spot,  and  snatched  it  up. 

Merciful  Heaven  1  he  nearly  fell  with  aston- 
ishment and  joy. 

It  was  a  heavy  purse  of  green  and  gold,  with 
broad  gold  coins  glittering  through  its  meshes. 

Charley  hugged  it  to  his  bosom  and  cast  a 
frightened  look  all  around  him,  fearing  that 
some  one  might  even  spring  up  out  of  the  earth 
and  snatch  it  from  him ;  then  he  was  afraid  of 
waking  up  and  finding  it  all  a  dream  ;  thon  ho 
set  off  at  the  height  of  his  speed,  and  never 
stopped  or  looked  behind  him  until  he  reached 
his  mother's  house. 

He  pushed  open  the  door,  ran  in,  and  stood 
trembling,  with  his  heart  beating  so  that  he 
could  scarcely  speak. 

"Charley!  Charley!  What  is  the  matter? 
What  haxie  you  done?  Is  any  one  after  you?" 
cried  the  mother  in  affright,  while  poor  little 
Bessie  raised  herself  up  in  the  bed  and  gazed 
at  her  brother  in  fear  and  distress. 

"  No,  no  !  nobody's  after  me— I  haven't  done 
anything  wrong,"  said  the  boy,  in  a  choking 
voice  ;  "  but  -but  I've  found  a  fortune !" 

"  Found  a  fortune  !   What  do  you  mean,  boy  ?" 

"  I— I've  found  a  purse  chuck  full  of  money 
and  doctors,  and  medicines,  and  jellies,  for 
poor,' dear  little  sissy,  and— and— green  tea  and 
loaf  sugar,  and— and  mutton  broth,  and— and 
lots  of  things  for  you^  mother— oh,  dear !  oh  ! 
boo-hoo-oo  I"  cried  the  boy,  overcome  by  his 
feelings,  bursting  into  tears,  and  sobbing  as  if 
his  heart  would  break. 

As  for  the  poor  mother,  she  really  feared  that 
her  boy  had  lost  his  senses.  But  after  he  had 
had  his  cry  out,  and  felt  more  composed,  ho 
calmly  told  her  everything  that  had  happened 
at  the  clothes  store  and  on  his  walk  home,  and 
then  he  took  out  the  purse  and  showed  it  to  h(5r. 

Oh,  what  a  temptation  it  was  to  that  poor 
woman  1 

There  lay  her  sick  child  upon  the  bed  without 
food  or  medicine. 

There  stood  her  cold  and  hungry  boy  looking 
into  her  face,  not  doubting  that  the  purse  was 
their  own. 

Night — a  winter's  night — was  coming  on  ;  there 
was  no  wood,  no  food,  no  money,  except  this,  in 
the  house. 

What  a  temptation  ! 

She  poured  the  money  out  and  counted  it ; 
from  one  end  ot  the  purse  came  two  eagles  and 
ahalf  eagle— twenty-five  dollars ;  from  the  other 
end  came  a  dollar  and  seven  shillings  in.  silver 
change.  "  Twenty-six  dollars  and  eighty-seven 
and  a  half  cents,"  said  the  widow,  conteniplating 
the  treasure  before  her. 

"  That  will  buy  a  cord  of  wood,  a  barrel  of 
flour,  a  ham,  a  pound  of  tea,  a  loaf  of  sugar,  and 
shoes  and  clothes,  and  ever  so  many  nice  things 
for  you  and  sissy,  and  leave  ever  so  much  money 


66 


THE  WIDOW'S  SON. 


behind.  Quick,  mother,  give  me  one  of  the 
tens,  and  let  me  go  and  order  the  wood,  so  that 
they  can  send  it  in  this  afternoon,  and  I  can 
pitch  it  all  in  the  cellar  before  night.  And  while 
they  are  carting  it  up,  I  can  run  'round  to  the 
grocery  store  and  to  market,  and  we'll  have  such 
a  fire,  and  such  a  supper  1"  said  Charley,  eag- 
erly. 

Oh  !  such  a  look  of  more  than  mortal  heroism 
that  mother  gave  that  son. 

"  This  money  is  not  ours,  Charley.  We  must 
not  spend  one  cent  of  it,"  she  said  tirmly. 

And  then  the  expression  of  dismay  and  chagrin 
with  which  the  boy  heard  her  wortls. 

"Not  snend  a  cent  of  it !  "Why,  didn't  I  find 
it,  mother?  and  don't  we  want  it  ever  so  badly, 
and  doesn't  it  seem  just  as  if  the  Lord  sent  it  to 
us  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  you  found  it,  but  then  the  owner  lost  it ; 
we  do  so  want  it,  but  then  we  have  no  right  to 
use  it ;  the  Lord  sent  it  to  us,  truly,  but  Ho  sent 
it  as  a  test  of  our  honesty.  Wo  will  be  faithful 
to  the  trust.    We  will  be  faithful  unto  death  !" 

"Oh,  mother,  mother,  look  at  little  sister." 

"  I  do.    She  is  in  the  Lord's  hands." 

"  Well,  but,  dear  mother,  if  we  cannot  use  it 
all,  can't  we  use  a  part  ?  Surely  the  owner, 
when  we  find  hira,  will  reward  us  ;  can't  wo  take 
just  a  little  of  the  reward  beforehand?  This 
loose  silver  change,  now— it  is  a  dollar  and 
eighty-seven  and  a  half  cents.  I  know  the  owner 
would  give  me  more  than  this  for  finding  the 
purse  ;  can't  we  use  this  ?  It  would  get  us  a 
supper  and  fire,  and  wood  and  food  for  to-mor- 
row, also." 

"  Would  my  boy  be  a  thief?" 

'*  Thief!  oli  mother!  I  only  thought  of  using 
beforehand  the  reward  I  should  be  sure  to  get 
for  finding  and  restoring  this  beautiful  purse." 

"Would  my  Charley  take  money  as  a  reward 
for  being  honest  ?" 

The  boy,  who  had  taken  the  purse  in  his  hand, 
now  threw  it  upon  the  table. 

"Would  that  be  wrong?"  he  asked. 

"  Very  wrong,  Charley,"  replied  his  mother. 

"  Oh,  how  hard  it  is  to  be  good." 

"  Very  hard,  Charley ;  but  great  is  the  reward 
of  God's  approbation.  He  is  watching  us  now. 
Angels  are  watching  with  interest  to  see  how  we 
will  bear  this  temptation.  Let  us  bear  it, 
Charley." 

"  Yes,  we  will,  mother  ;  oh  f  little  sister— oh  ! 
little  Bessie,  must  you  faint  for  want  of  food  ?" 

"If  I  die,  angels  will  carry  me  to  the  Lord, 
and  I  will  ask  Him  to  send  down  help  to  you  and 
mother,  Charley,"  said  the  sick  child.  "  Come 
and  kiss  me,  Charley.    I  am  going  to  sleep." 

Charley  went  and  kissed  the  little  one  very 
tenderly,  and  smoothed  the  pillow  under  her 
head,  and  drew  up  the  bed  clothes  around  her, 
and  sat  and  held  his  hand  upon  her  fair  fore- 
head until  she  wont  to  sleep. 

Was  the  struggle  with  temptation  over  then  ? 
and  was  the  victory  gained  once  and  forever? 

Ah,  no!  the  battle  between  principle  and 
privation  was  to  be  fought  over  and  over  again. 

That  afternoon  the  little  family  were  reduced 
to  the  greatest  straits.  It  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  provide  for  the  night  and  for  the  Sab- 
bath, when  they  could  not  work ;  but  how  ? 

At  length  the  widow  thought  of  one  thing 
about  the  house  that  might  be  turned  into 
suoney ;  jl  was  aaoia  bfett^fed  eilver  taWobpoon 


—a  sole  relic  of  more  prosperous  times.  She 
sent  it  to  the  silversmith,  who  gave  six  shillings 
for  it  as  old  silver. 

With  this  they  purchased  a  little  wood  and 
groceries  that  lasted  them  for  a  few  days,  until 
the  mother  could  get  more  work. 

But  then  the  rent  had  to  be  paid,  and  the 
landlord  was  impatient  and  threatened  them 
with  expulsion.  There  was  another  severe 
temptation  to  satisfy  his  claim  with  a  portion  of 
the  money  in  the  purse.  But  they  resisted  it, 
ana  sold  their  stove  to  pay  the  debt. 

Each  week  they  grew  poorer.  Each  we^k 
some  portion  of  the  scanty  furniture  had  to  be 
sold  to  satisfy  some  craving  necessity  of  hunger 
or  of  cold.  Each  week  the  temptation  to  use 
the  money  in  the  purse  waxed  stronger ;  but 
with  the  bitterness  of  their  hardships  and  the 
strength  of  their  trial,  the  might  of  their  virtue 
seemed  to  increase. 

They  could  not  afford  to  pay  for  advertising 
the  lost  purse,  and  they  took  no  newspaper,  and 
therefore  would  not  see  the  advertisement  for 
it.  But  they  lot  their  poor  neighbors  and  friends 
know  that  they  had  found  a  purse  of  money,  and 
that  the  owner  mighi  have  it  by  coming  and 
proving  property.  Still  no  one  appeared  to 
claim  it. 

And  it  had  remained  for  a  month  upon  their 
hands,  when  one  day  Charley  brought  home  a 
bundle  of  work  from  the  store  for  his  mother. 
When  she  had  unrolled  it,  he  took  up  the  paper 
in  which  it  had  been  wrapped  and  began  to 
read. 

It  was  a  paper  three  weeks  old,  yet  so  poor 
was  Charley  in  reading  matter  that  he  was  glad 
to  have  even  that.  While  ho  was  reading  the 
advertisements  he  suddenly  made  an  exclama- 
tion—" Oh  !  mother,  mother,  here  is  the  purae 
advertised." 

"  What !  do  tell  me  !  read  it,  it  may  be  a  mis- 
take," Said  the  mother. 

"  No,  it  isn't  a  mistake,  listen  : 

"  *  Lost.— On  Seventh  Street,  between  New  York 
and  Pennsylvania  Avenues,  on  Saturday  afternoon, 
a  green  and  gold  purse,  bordered  with  a  wreath  of 
forget-me-nots  in  their  natural  colors,  and  contiiia- 
ing  sixteen  dollars  in  gold  and  silver.  The  finder 
may  retain  the  contents  by  returning  the  purse  at 
this  office.'  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  the  purse,"  said  the  widow.  "  You 
must  go  and  restore  it,  Charley." 

"But,  mother,  the  conte^rts ;  this  purse  that  I 
found  contains  twentv-six  dollars ;  the  adver- 
tisement speaks  of  only  sixteen." 

"For  all  that  it  is  the  same  purse  ;  it  proba- 
bly belongs  to  some  rich  person  who  had  been 
shopping  or  paying  workmen,  and  did  not  know 
exactly  how  much  money  was  left  in  it.  Eun, 
Charley,  and  restore  it." 

The  boy  picked  up  his  hat,  and,  with  his  face 
all  aglowj  ran  to  the  Intelligencer  ofi&ce. 

That  night  when  Mrs.  Sherbourne  was  sitting 
in  her  comfortable  back  parlor,  waiting  tea  for 
her  husband,  Mr.  Sherbourne  entered,  and 
handing  her  a  folded  paper,  said,  "  Mv  dear, 
here  is  a  note  that  was  left  at  my  store  for  you 
this  evening." 

"  Oh !  yes,  I  suppose  it  is  some  new  charita- 
ble association  that  somebody  wants  to  engage 
mo  in  ;  let  it  wait  until  we  have  had  our  tea. 
You  look  worn  out,  dear%   Wli&t  kept  you  so 


TSE  WIDOW'S  SON. 


57 


"  Oh,  that  boy  Jenkins." 

"  Your  youngest  salesman  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  he  has  put  his  lingers  in  the  till !  I 
only  discovered  it  this  afternoon." 

"  Oh,  how  shocking  I  and  that  is  the  second 
boy  you  have  had  to  dismiss  for  pilfering." 

"  Yes ;  you  see  the  temptation  is  very  strong 
to  boys  who  are  not  confirmed  in  good  prin- 
ciples." 

"  What  will  you  do  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I  am  sure.  If  I  could  only 
get  a  boy  whom  I  could  fully  trust,  I  would 
make  his  fortune." 

"  Well,  it's  a  pity ;  but  cast  care  aside  for  the 
present,  and  take  your  tea,"  said  the  lady,  as 
tbe  waiter  placed  the  steaming  silver  urn  upon 
the  table. 

While  the  master  of  the  house  was  sipping  his 
"  imperial,"  the  mistress  opened  her  note  with 
an  exclamation  of  joy. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  inquired  the  gentleman. 

"  Oh,  my  purse,  my  purse  is  found !  and  has 
been  left  at  the  Intelligencer  office." 

"  Indeed  1  I  congratulate  you.  We  must  go 
to-morrow  morning  and  get  it." 

Accordingly,  the  next  morning  Mr.  and  Mrs, 
Sherbourne  called  at  the  Intelligencer  office  to 
reclaim  the  purse. 

"But  it  is  full  of  money,"  said  Mrs.  Sher- 
bourne, "  and  I  think  you  must  have  under- 
stood my  directions  to  give  its  contents  to  the 
finder.    And,  by  the  way,  who  was  the  finder?" 

"  A  very  poor  boy,  madam  ;  the  son  of  a  des- 
titute widow,  but  one  who  firmly  refused  to  take 
any  reward  for  being  honest." 

"  And  he  poor  1" 

**  Very  poor,  indeed,  madam,  I  should  judge 
from  bis  pinched  looks  and  patched  raiment.'^ 

"  But  why  did  you  not  insist  ?" 

"  I  did,  madam  ;  but  he  was  firm,  and  finally 
blushed  with  shame  at  the  idea  of  being  paid 
for  honesty." 

The  lady's  face  was  all  aglow  with  admiration. 

"Mr.  Sherbourne,  do  you  hear  that?"  she 
said,  in  trembling  tones.  Then  turning  again 
to  the  clerk:  "Where  does  this  boy  live?"  she 

"  Fortunately,  I  asked  his  address  :  he  lives 
at  No.  —  Seventh  Street." 

"Come,  Mr.  Sherbourne,  let's  go  to  him;  he 
must  be  rewarded,"  said  the  ladv,  as  she  took 
her  husband's  arm  and  left  the  office. 

A  bi-isk  walk  of  ten  minutes  brought  them  to 
the  widow's  door. 

That  morning  the  widow  was  sitting  over  a 
handful  of  coals  and  working  as  hard  as  ever, 
for  she  had  not  yet  earned  tbe  five  dollars  that 
she  was  obliged  to  earn  before  she  could  receive 
any  money  from  her  employer. 

Little  Bessie  lay  siififering  patiently  in  bod. 
Charley  was  sitting  upon  a  cricket  netting  a 
seine,  for  which  he  expected  to  get  a  dollar 
when  finished. 

There  was  a  rap  at  the  door,  and,  to  the  wid- 
ow's "Come  in!"  entered  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sher- 
bourne. The  lady  held  the  purse  in  her  hand. 
And  the  widow  and  her  family  understood  at 
once  why  she  came. 

"  1  am  the  one  who  lost  this  purse,  and  this 
is  the  youth,  I  think,  who  restored  it,  and  re- 
fused to  accept  any  reward,"  said  the  lady,  ad- 
vancing and  oflfering  her  hand  to  Charley,  who 
blushed  ingenuously  as  ho  took  it. 


"  There  was  no  reward  merited.  The  finding 
of  the  purse  was  accident.  The  restoration  of 
it  was  duty,"  said  the  widow,  as  she  arose  and 
handed  chairs  to  the  visitors. 

"  And  you  will  not  suffer  me,  then,  to  comply 
with  the  terms  of  the  advertisement  ?"  asked 
the  lady. 

"  I  cannot  permit  myself  or  my  son  to  be  paid 
for  doing  that  which  not  to  have  done  would 
have  been  criminal,"  said  the  widow,  with  a 
mild  dignity  that  constrained  respect. 

The  lady  cast  a  beseeching  look  at  her  hus- 
band, who,  understanding  her  meaning,  in- 
quired of  the  boy  : 

"  Charley,  have  you  been  to  school  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  to  the  free  echool." 

"Can  you  write  a  fair  hand  and  keep  ac- 
counts ?" 

"  Oh,   yes,  sir." 

"  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Sherbourne,  turning  to 
the  widow,  "  I  am  in  want  of  a  youth  to  assist 
me  in  my  store.  If  you  are  willing  that  your 
son  should  take  the  situation,  I  should  be  very 
glad  to  secure  his  services  at  once  at  a  salary  of 
sixteen  dollars  a  month.  If  he  likes  the  busi- 
ness, and  remains  with  me,  his  salary  shall 
be  increased  in  proportion  to  his  usefulness. 
Come,  what  say  you  ?" 

"  I  say  that  the  Lord  is  good,  and  I  praise 
and  bless  Him  first  and  you  next,  sir — you 
next.  God  bless  you  !"  cried  the  widow,  burst- 
ing into  grateful,  happy  tears. 

"And  what  say  you  to  this  arrangement,  my 
son  ?"  said  the  merchant,  turning  to  Charley. 

"Oh,  dear  sir,  I  thank  you  more  than  I  can 
ever  express,  and  I  only  fear  that  I  shall  never 
be  worth  sixteen  dollars  a  month  to  you  or  any- 
body, though  I  would  do  my  very  best— indeed 
I  would !" 

"  And  if  you  do  that  your  value  would  be  be- 
yond price,"   answered  the  merchant. 

"Charley,  Charley  !"  said  a  little  plaintive 
voice  from  the  bed,  "  ask  the  dear  gentleman  to 
come  and  kiss  me." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sherbourne  went  immediately 
to  the  bedside  and  kissed  the  snow-white  fore- 
head and  crimson  cheek  of  the  little  suflTerer, 
who  return  ed  their  caresses. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  her  ?"  asked  the  lady. 

"  A  sort  of  decline,  madame,"  answered  the 
poor  mother,  with  the  tears  springing  to  her 
eyes. 

"  I  think  it  is  the  want  of  pure  air  and  proper 
nourishment,  and  sufficient  warmth ;  but  all 
this  can  be  supplied  now,"  said  the  lady. 

They  then  advanced  to  Charley  a  month's  sal- 
ary to  fit  himself  out,  and  soon  alter  took  their 
leave. 

There  is  little  more  to  be  said.  The  widow's 
family  soon  moved  into  a  beautiful  little  white 
cottage,  with  green  window  bhnds  and  a  new 
garden,  and  which  was  furnished  neatly  and  let 
to  them  at  a  low  rent  by  Mr.  Sherbourne. 

Mrs.  Sherbourne  supplied  the  mother  with  as 
much  family  needle- work  as  she  could  do  at  a 
very  fair  price. 

Little  Bessie,  with  the  comforts  oflifeaboutj. 
her,  soon  got  well. 

And  as  for  Charley,  he  so  grows  into  the  favor 
of  his  employer  that  Mr.  Sherbourne  confidently 
looks  forward  to  the  day  when  he  shall  take  him 
into  partnership. 


The  Missing  Link, 


By  CIaARENCK  m.  boutkllk. 


The  through  express  was  late  that  night. 

Fifty  miles  an  hour,  hour  after  hour,  it  had 
rushed  along,  with  only  an  occasional  stop,  and 
with  hardly  a  slackening  of  speed  at  the  smaller 
stations.  The  night  was  a  bad  one  :  moonlight 
at  times,  with  the  blackest  of  shadows,  strange 
and  fantastic,  lying  in  cuts  and  along  curves, 
seeming  like  threats  of  danger,  and  just  where 
danger  might  be  feared,  at  least,  if  not  expected  ; 
then  scattering  clouds,  hurried  by  the  autumn 
wind,  shutting  out  all  light  from  the  sky,  at 
limes,  and  usually  when  it  was  most  needed  or 
would  have  been  most  welcome.  Malcolm  Bar- 
nard looked  straight  ahead,  never  taking  his 
gaze  from  the  shining  lines  of  steel,  under  the 
light  his  engine  cast  into  the  night  of  darkness 
or  of  shadows  ;  but  there  was  a  frown  on  his  fine 
face,  for  he  felt  that  he  was  losing  time  and 
could  not  help  it. 

The  night  went  on. 

The  through  express  went  on. 

At  every  station  at  which  it  stopped,  it  was 
possible  there  might  be  orders  to  wait.  But,  at 
station  after  station,  the  telegraphic  orders, 
which  were  actually  waiting  the  train's  coming, 
were  to  go  on. 

An  hour  late  at  one  station  !  Midnight  then, 
with  the  full  moon  almost  on  the  meridian,  and 
the  clouds  flying  faster  than  ever  from  the  strong 
south  wind. 

Forty-five  minutes  late  at  the  next  station ! 
One  o'clock  now,  with  the  moonshine  shut  away 
and  the  clouds  victorious.  Malcolm  Barnard 
smiled  grimljr. 

"We've  gained  fifteen  minutes  in  an  hour's 
run,"  he  said,  half  to  himself  and  half  to  the 
fireman.  "  I  wonder  how  much  time  we'll  gain 
in  the  next  fifty  miles  ?" 

"  The  fireman  did  not  take  it  upon  himself  to 
answer.  But,  as  the  train  slowly  pulled  out 
from  the  station,  and  Barnard  fixed  his  gaze  on 
the  track  again,  the  fireman  shook  his  head ;.  he 
seemed  gloomy  and  depressed ;  possibly  he  be- 
lieved in  presentiments. 

Malcolm  Barnard  had  not  been  married  forty- 
eight  hours.  He  was  a  fine-looking  fellow,  but 
he  didn't  look  much  like  a  bridegroom  just  now. 
There  wasn't  enough  happiness  in  his  face  to 
warrant. a  guess  that  he  was  one.  He  was  wor- 
ried about  the  train  losing  time.  But  when  he 
reached  a  straight,  smooth  track,  which  he  did 
directly,  and  a  mile  began  to  fall  behind  them 
for  every  minute,  he  seome*^.  tn  rally. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  glad,"  he  said  to  him- 
self; "Ihope  lam.  As  for  fear,  I  don't  think 
I  know  what  it  is.  But  this  doubt  of  her— oh,  it 
is  horrible  !  What  did  the  man  mean  !  If  I  only 
knew— if  I  only  knew." 

The  moon  broke  through  the  clouds  for  a 
moment  or  two,  as  though  to  take  a  last  look  at 
the  world  of  that  night,  and  to  see  that  every- 
thing was  all  right,  or  as  near  all  right  as  things 


can  be,  in  a  world  of  sorrow  and  of  sin ;  a  world 
in  which  some  fall,  many  fail,  and  all  die.  The 
wind  had  increased ;  its  sound  was  harsh  and 
mournful ;  a  spiteful  dash  of  rain  swept  in  at 
the  open  window,  and  fell  on  Barnard's  cheek  ; 
whatever  the  night  had  been,  the  coming  morn- 
ing seemed  not  unlikely  to  be  one  of  wildnesa 
and  storm. 

Tall  spectral-looking  trees  almost  touched 
the  train  as  it  dashed  on.  Huge  rotten  logs, 
half  buried  in  the  slimy  moisture  of  the  swampy 
land  seemed  to  start  out  of  the  darkness  men- 
acingly, and  then  to  withdraw  with  a  monstrous 
sullen  malice  into  the  blackness  again.  It  was 
the  loneliest  place  on  Barnard's  whole  long  run. 

They  came  out  of  the  swampy  woodlandj;  the 
way  was  rougher  now,  with  scattered  hills  and 
occasional  outcropping  rocky  ledges.  Just  ahead 
was  a  curve,  with  a  long  stretch  of  almost  level 
and  straight  track  again  beyond  it,  running 
along  the  crest  of  a  narrow  ridge.  A  dangerous 
place,  but  one  over  which  Barnard  had  gone  in 
safety  for  so  many  times,  that  he  had  for  it  the 
contempt  which  familiarity  breeds.  He  hardly 
slackened  speed  at  all  as  he  approached  the 
curve. 

"  I  must  try  to  find  out,  T  suppose,"  he  said, 
wearily,  to  himself;  "though  God  only  knows 
what  I  shall  find  out.  It  may  be  the  most  ter- 
rible  " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  A  wild 
"  Hillo  I"  ahead,  repeated  again  and  again,  in 
tones  of  mortal  terror  and  warning,  made  his 
heart  stand  still  for  a  moment.  Simultaneously, 
the  train  rounded  the  curve.  And  there,  dimly 
Been  in  the  fitful  light,  but  not  so  dimly  as  to 
leave  any  of  the  hope  which  doubt  sometimes 
gives,  was  the  most  horrible  sight  which  Mal- 
colm Barnard  had  ever  seen. 

He  had  been  startled  once  or  twice  during  his 
ten  years  of  experience  as  a  railroad  man,  and 
had  gained  a  reputation  for  quickness  and  cour- 
age in  averting  danger.  But  now  it  was  to  be 
seen  whether  he  could  go,  open-eyed  and  firm- 
handed,  down  to  the  gaping  dcors  of  death,  un- 
flinching and  in  silence,  because  he  had  some 
hundreds  of  lives  behind  him  who  had  no  hope 
left,  save  in  him,  though  they  did  not  know  or 
guess  itr-and  because  it  was  his  duty. 

Heavy  timber,  railroad  ties,  and  beams  which 
were  even  larger,  had  been  piled  on  the  track. 
Barnard's  first  thought,  so  strangely  trivial  will 
thought  sometimes  be,  even  in  the  face  of  death 
itself,  was  a  vague  wonder  as  to  how  they  could 
have  been  placed  there  ;  how  many  men  must 
have  agreea  in  the  horrible  conspiracy  of  train- 
wrecking,  and  how  long  it  must  have  taken  them 
to  do  it.  A  grim  smile  of  admiration  for  them 
flashed  over  his  face  as  ho  sped  on  toward  the 
trap  which  had  been  set  for  the  train.  The  work 
had  been  very  thoroughly  done— very  thoroughly 
indeed. 


THE  MmSING  LINK. 


59 


In  front  of  the  pile,  but  to  one  side,  wildly 
waving  bis  arms,  was  wbat  seemed  a  tramp,  one 
of  those  men  who  may  be  found  everywhere  and 
at  all  times,  but  whose  coming  is  a  mystery  and 
whose  going  is  as  strange.  He  had  found  this 
barrier  to  the  train's  safety  some  two  or  three 
minutes  before  the  engine  appeared,  heard  the 
thunder  of  its  approach,  and  had  given  his  warn- 
ing cry.  Let  us  not  pause  to  aek  why  he  did  as 
he  did  ;  let  us  not  ask  whether  it  was  some  in- 
nate goodness  in  the  man,  some  feeling  which 
had  grown  up  in  his  soul  when  he  was  a  pure- 
hearted  child  or  an  honest  man,  and  which  all 
the  years  of  his  outcast  life  bad  not  sufficed  to 
blot  out,  or  what  it  was.  Lot  us  only  remember 
that  another  one  might  have  stood  aside,  instead 
of  running  at  full  speed  up  the  track,  and  shout- 
ing at  the  top  of  his  voice. 

Barnard  saw  the  tramp  before  he  saw  the  ob- 
struction on  the  track.  Not  long  before— not 
many  seconds  ;  but  long  enough  for  him  to  have 
applied  the  air-brakes,  and  to  have  taken  his 
resolve  to  do  bis  best,  though  he  died  for  it. 
Not  long  ;  bat  long  enough  to  make  all  the  dif- 
ference between  what  might  have  happened  and 
what  did. 

Barnard  applied  the  brakes ;  the  sharp  hiss 
of  the  imprisoned  air,  finding  its  eager  way  out, 
served  as  a  warning  to  the  wakeful  ones  on  the 
train  of  a  danger  which  suddenly  frowned  upon 
them.  For  the  sleeping  ones,  there  was  no 
warning,  no  time  for  any. 

The  brakes  worked  well.  One  could  not  have 
expected  them  to  work  better.  But  the  fireman, 
svho  had  had  no  lack  of  experience,  saw  that  a 
collision  was  inevitable,  and  he  delibcra,tely  and 
intelligently  chose  what  ho  regarded  as  the  best 
and  safest  plan,  when  he  sprang  from  the  engine. 
He  sprang,  leaving  Barnard  to  face  the  peril 
and  responsibility  alone.  He  had  thought  that 
Barnai'd  would  follow.  But  he  did  not  esti- 
mate him  at  quite  his  full  value ;  he  did  not 
quite  understand  the  sort  of  a  man  he  had  with 
him  at  the  post  of  duty  and  danger. 

The  motion  grew  slower  —  slower— slower. 
But  it  was  still  terribly  swift.  Motions  are  rela- 
tive, and  a  train  may  greatly  slacken  speed 
from  sixty  miles  an  hour,  and  still  go  perilously 
fast. 

It  was  not  long— a  few  seconds,  a  few  heart- 
beats— before  Barnard  knew  that  he  could  no 
more  stop  his  train  before  reaching  the  piled-up 
fabric  of  murder  on  the  track  before  him,  than 
he  could  stop  the  thunderbolt  when  half  way 
down  the  sky.  They  would  go  into  it,  over  it, 
and  then 

He  shut  his  eyes  and  shuddered.  Then,  with 
a  quick  thought  how  to  lessen  the  danger  to  the 
passengers,  he  pulled  open  the  throttle-valve. 

His  engine  sprang  forward  as  though  alive. 
The  connection  between  engine  and  train  parted. 
And  then 

He  did  jump  now.    He  had  done  all  he  could. 

It  was  over  in  a  few  seconds.  The  engine 
struck  the  ties  and  timbers,  and  scattered  them 
to  right  and  left.  It  almost  cleared  the  track, 
but  it  was  at  the  sacrifice  of  itself.  It  left  the 
rails  ;  it  rolled  down  the  embankment,  cutting 
and  crushing  stout  young  trees  on  its  way,  and 
lauded,  bottom  up,  in  a  half-dozen  feet  of  water. 
The  cars  came  to  rest  only  when  half  the  train 
had  passed  the  place  where  the  obstruction  had 
been.    One  or  two  cars  had  left  the  rails,  but  all 


remained  right-side-up  and  on  the  road-bed. 
Malcolm  Barnard,  aided  by  some  nameless  waif 
of  the  threatening  night,  had  saved  half  a  thou- 
sand lives.  Malcolm  Barnard  had  proved  him- 
self true  and  loyal.  He  had  laid  his  life  on 
the  altar  of  duty  and  he  had  escaped  without  a 
scratch. 

But,  when  the  passengers  came  thronging  out 
in  the  gray  stormy  dawn,  asking  more  questions 
than  engineer  and  tramp  could  answer,  they 
found  the  fireman  a  little  way  off,  unmarked  by 
wheel  or  rail,  but  dead.  Better  had  he  staid 
and  faced  his  duty. 

11. 

It  is  hard  to  say  whether  the  passengers  ex- 
pressed more  thankfulness  to  the  heroic  engi- 
neer who  had  saved  them,  or  to  the  tramp, 
whose  timely  warning  had  made  Barnard's  suc- 
cessful action  possible.  Each  man  was  modest, 
the  engineer  because  of  his  gentlemanly  in- 
stincts, and  the  tramp  because  of  long  habit. 
Meantime,  the  conductor  had  the  dead  fireman 
placed  in  a  berth  in  the  sleeping  car,  and  sent 
brakemen  both  up  and  down  the  track  to  give 
warhing  of  the  disaster  to  any  approaching 
train.  He  also  dispatched  men'  to  the  nearest 
station  to  telegraph  for  help. 

The  passengers  took  up  a  liberal  collection, 
entrusting  a  large  sum  of  money  to  a  commit- 
tee, selected  from  among  their  number,  for  the 
purpose  of  purchasing  a  gold  watch  and  chain 
to  be  presented  to  Mr.  Malcolm  Barnard  ;  while, 
to  the  tramp,  they  gave  a  good  amount  of  cash, 
though,  under  any  other  circumstances,  their 
dimes  would  have  been  slow  in  his  behalf.  Cix- 
cumstances  do  alter  cases,  don't  they"? 

The  morning  was  growing  more  and  more 
stormy.  The  wind  was  rougher  and  wilder.  So 
the  passengers  withdrew  into  the  cars  after  a 
little.  There,  with  true  American  spirit,  they 
framed  and  passed  certain  fine-sounding  reso- 
lutions, after  which  they  naturally  separated 
themselves  into  three  parties.  One-third  of 
them  discussed  the  danger  and  escape,  and 
added  to  the  discussion  most  marvelous  tales 
of  danger  they  had  experienced  or  known  of; 
another  third  growled  at  the  necessary  delay 
and  discomfort,  and  the  rest  sought  out  as  com- 
fortable places  and  positions  as  possible  and 
went  to  sleep. 

Then  Barnard  and  the  tramp,  as  though  with 
one  accord,  withdrew  a  little  from  the  train,  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  heavy  beams  which  had 
wrought  such  mischief,  and  commenced  to  talk 
and  smoke. 

I  don't  think  either  noticed  the  wind  and  the 
rain.  One  of  them  had  been  used  to  a  vaga- 
bond life,  in  all  sorts  of  weather,  for  too  many 
years,  to  leave  it  likely  that  he  would  be  partic- 
ular or  critical  now.  The  engineer  v^as  only 
thankful  that  he  was  not  in  the  sleeper,  beaide 
the  fireman ;  with  life,  strength,  and  whole 
limbs,  he  did  not  mind  the  wet.  And  the  glow 
at  his  heart —the  memory  of  what  he  had  done 
—kept  him  warm. 

Barnard  spoke  first.  His  manner  was  abrupt; 
his  question  was  pointed. 

"  VVhat  do  you  know  of  this  ?"  he  asked,  point- 
ing to  where  the  barricade  had  been  built  across 
the  path  of  safety.  "  Somehow,  I  have  a  sus- 
picion that  you  can  tell  me." 


60 


I 

THE  MISSING  LINK, 


"Well,"  lowering  his  voice,  "I— I  suppose  I 
have  something  to  tell.  I  don't  know  ;  it  mayn't 
have  anything  to  do  with  this ;  but  I  think— I 
think — '-" 

"  That  you  can  throw  some  light  on  this  acci- 
dent.   Is  that  it  ?" 

The  tramp  took  his  pipe  from  his  lips;  he 
looked  musingly  and  meditatively  away  into  the 
forest. 

"That  is  it,"  ho  said.  "I  think  I  can  toll 
something  about  what  has  happened." 

"  You  thmk  you  know  who  set  this  trap  here  ?" 

The  man  looked  steadily  over  to  where  the 
trap  had  been. 

"  I  think  so.  Not  by  name,  but  by  sight.  I 
think  I  can  tell  the  authorities  where  to  look 
for  them,  and  what  sort  of  men  they  are  to  look 
for." 

"And  why  ?    Do  you  think  you  know  why  ?" 

The  tramp  answered  slowly. 

"  I  think  1  know  why,"  ha  said. 

"Money?" 

The  tramj)  shook  his  head. 

"No,  sir,"  he  said,  firmly;  "I  don't  think 
that." 

"Ah !"  and  Barnard  drew  in  his  breath  qjjftrp- 
ly ;  "  for  God's  sake,  toll  me  :  what  do  you 
think  ?" 

"  I  think,"  replied  the  tramp,  with  a  dolioora- 
tion  almost  maddening  to  so  anxious  a  man  as 
Barnard  ;  "  and,  remember.  I  can't  use  a  strong- 
er word  than  that  I  think  it  was  a  trap  set  for 
some  one— some  one  only." 

Barnard  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  You— you  think  that?"  ho  cried.  "  Tell  me 
why  ?" 

"  Well,  yesterday  afternoon  I  heard  some  men 
talking.  '  We'll  fix  him,'  said  one.  'And  per- 
haps a  hundred  others,'  said  a  second.  'They 
must  take  their  chances,'  said  a  third,  with  a 
laugh.  I  didn't  give  much  attention  to  what 
was  said,  for  I  didn't  understand  what  they  could 
mean.  I  was  lying  in  a  box-car  trying  to  get  a 
little  sleep,  and  I'm  ashamed  to  have  to  say  that 
I  didn't  even  get  up  to  have  a  look  at  them." 

"  Then  you  couldn't  identify  them  ?" 

"  Not  exactly— unless  by  their  voices.  But  I 
guess  I  have  other  evidence,  which  will  be  more 
of  a  help  than  that." 

"  Good.  When  did  what  you  had  hoard  begin 
to  make  an  impression  on  you  ?" 

"  When  I  found  the  obstruction  on  the  track." 

"  You  believed,  then,  that  you  understood  to 
what  they  had  referred  ?" 

"  Certainly.    I  had  no  doubt  of  it." 

"  Nor  have  I.  Now,  tell  me  what  other  evi- 
dence you  have." 

"  This,  that  I  saw  three  men— the  same  num- 
ber as  those  Avho  talked  outside  the  freight-car 
— leave  town  on  horseback,  early  in  the  evening, 
coming  this  way.  They  were  armed  with  shot- 
guns, and " 

"Can  you  describe  them?" 

"  Fairly  well :  two  common  -  looking  men, 
poorly  dressed,  and " 

"  Never  mind  them.    What  of  the  other  ?" 

"  He  was  a  handsome  fellow— tall  and  dark, 
with  keen  eyes,  white  and  even  teeth,  a  mouth 
which  was  tirm  and  strong,  a  heavy  black  mus- 
tache, pointed  sharply  at  ihe  ends,  and " 

"  Wait,"  said  Barnard,  taking  out  a  pocket- 
book,  selecting  a  photograph  from  several  which 


it  contained  and  passing  it  to  the  tramp.     "  Did 
he  look  anythinec  like  that  ?" 

"  Did  ho"^?"  cried  the  tramp.  "Did  he?  How 
did  you  get  his  picture  ?    He  is  the  very  man." 

"  You  are  sure?" 

"  As  sure  as  I  am  of  my  own  life." 

"  I  guess,  then,  that  the  trap— the  trap " 

"  Was  set  for  you  ?" 

"I— I  fear  so." 

"  I  think  so,  too,"  said  tho  tramp,  with  quiet 
emphasis. 

"And  now,  what  else  do  you  know?"  asked 
Barnard. 

"  Not  much.  But  still  I  think  I'll  teU  you," 
he  said,  in  a  very  low  and  guarded  voice.  "  I've 
done  you  service  enough  to  make  it  right  to  ask 
two  things  of  you.    Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"  It  is.    What  are  the  two  things  ?" 

"  That  you'll  keep  what  I  tell  you  to  yourself." 

"Agreed." 

"And  that  you  won't  ask  me  regarding  what 
I  don't  tell  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  presume  that  will  be  harder;  but  I 
agree  to  it." 

"  Very  \Yell.  You  would  call  me  a  tramp,  I 
suppose?" 

Barnard  laughed. 

"  I  suppose  I  should  tiave  to,  if  you'll  pardon 
my  frankness,"  he  said." 

"  You  fancy  I  look  like  a  tramp.  Do  I  talk 
like  one  ?" 

"I  think  not." 

"  I  think  not,  too— though  I've  been  with  them 
enough  to  have  lost  the  most  of  all  I  ever  knew 
or  ever  was.    Do  I  look  likeoi  wealthy  man  ?" 

Barnard  laughed  again. 

"  No,  you  don't,"  he  replied. 
^  "  I  suppose  not.  And  yet  I  was  wealthy- 
very  wealthy — ten  years  ago.  I  would  be  wealthy 
now  but  for  the  terrible  wickedness  of  a  man  I 
trusted.  He  was  my  partner,  and  the  active 
member  of  tho  firm.  I  put  in  the  money,  he 
put  in  his  time.  Slowly  but  steadily  we  lost ; 
venture  after  venture  swept  away  my  money, 
thousands  of  dollars  at  a  time.  6ne  night  the 
end  came.  I  got  a  telegram  that  all  was  gone, 
and  that  my  notes  for  large  sums  were  due  and 
unpaid.  I  pitied  my  partner- -pitied  him  even 
more  than  I  pitied  myself;  for  I  was  alone  in 
the  world,  while  he  was  about  to  marrv  a  beau- 
tiful young  woman.  I  went  home  to  Boston  to 
our  place  of  business,  to  see  if  there  was  not 
something  which  could  be  realized,  in  spite  of 
the  general  wreck.  I  found  there  was  nothing 
to  be  done— nothing." 

"  But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  the  matter 
in  hand  ?" 

"  Everything.  Don't  think  that  I  am  wander- 
ing from  the  subject,  for  I  am  not.  One  night 
I  got  a  hint  that  my  partner  had  defrauded  me. 
It  was  too  astounding  to  believe.  But  it  came 
in  so  startling  a  way  that  I  was  forced  to  follow 
the  hint  to  its  legitimate  conclusion,  even  against 
my  own  will.  I  did  it.  I  studied  my  books  — 
the  books  of  the  business.  It  took  me  many 
days  and  nights.  Everything  had  be^n  done 
with  cunning  care.  I  don't  know  whether  every- 
thing had  been  done  with  enough  attention  to 
legal  form  to  have  made  it  impossible  for  me  to 
have  punished  the  traitor,  could  I  have  shown 
the  world  exactly  what  he  had  done  ;  I  am  not 
sure  that  he  could  not  have  kept  his  ill-gotten 
money,  even  after  I  had  proved  exactly  how  he 


TEE  MISSING  LINK. 


61 


had  obtained  it.  But  I  could  prove  nothing; 
the  work  had  been  too  artfuHy  dope  lor  that, 
though  the  story  the  books  told  confirmed  my 
bint,  my  fear,  my  belief;  my  partner  was  rich, 
while  I  was  worse  than  a  beggar.  And  he  had 
robbed  mo,  as  certainly  as  though  he  had 
stopped  me  on  the  street  some  dark  night,  re- 
volver in  hand,  and  given  me  the  choice  be- 
tween parting  with  my  money  or  my  life.  The 
difference  between  the  crime  he  had  committed 
and  so  vulgar  a  crime  as  highway  robbery,  was 

great ;  he  had  taken  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
ollars  ;  he  had  done  it  safely  ;  he  was  a  gentle- 
man through  it  all."  . 

"  Do  you  mean  that  for  truth  ?"  queried  Bar- 
nard. ,  , , 

"  Truth  ?  Do  you  doubt  it  ?  What  I  have  told 
is  wonderful ;  I  don't  blame  you  for  doubting 
it.  But  it  is  nothing  compared  to  the  strange 
talo  left  to  tell." 

"  Please  let  me  hear  it." 

"I  weut  to  my  partner.  I  told  him  what  I 
had  discovered.  I  informed  him  I  had  had  a 
hint  to  help  me  in  my  work,  though  I  did  not 
tell  him  where  ur  how  I  had  obtained  it." 

"  And  what  did  he  do  ?" 

"  He  laughed  at  me.  Though  he  was  careless 
enough  to  say  that  it  would  have  been  easy  to  do 
that  of  which  I  accused  him,  and  to  cover  one's 
tracks  before  any  danger  of  discovery—'  or  at 
least  of  proof,'  he  added,  quietly." 

"  And  then?" 

"  And  then  I  almost  went  down  on  my  knees  to 
him,  and  urged  him  to  let  mo  have  enough  to 
pay  the  indebtedness  for  which  1  was  responsi- 
ble, and  to  keep  the  rest.  But  he  laughed  and 
jeered  at  me.  He  would  confess  to  no  rights  on 
my  part ;  he  would  make  no  amends  on  his. 
My  mifh  in  mankind  was  gone.  1  became  what 
you  see  me  now.  I  have  not  slept  in  a  bed  since 
then,  and  that  was  ten  years  ago." 

The  tramp  aroae  to  his  feet.  He  looked  away 
down  the  track,  and  took  two  or  three  lagging 
steps  that  way. 

"Let  luj  go  away  from  you  for  a  little  while," 
he  said,  "Perhaps  j^ou  don't  believe  what  I 
have  said.  But  what  is  to  come  is  far  more  in  • 
credible.  Now,  I  want  you  to  have  time  to  con- 
sider whether  you  dare  believe  what  I  have  yet 
to  tell.  And,  God  help  me,  I  want  to  think  it 
all  over  calmly  by  myself ;  I  want  to  be  certain 
that  I  believe  it,  too." 

"  Believe  1"  said  Barnard,  bitterly,  to  himself; 
"believe!  As  though  I  were  not  ready,  after 
this  night's  experience,  to  believe  anything." 

He  took  a  letter  from  his  pocket,  as  he  spoke, 
a  letter  he  had  received  less  than  an  hour  before 
he  had  given  his  name  and  protection  to  the 
woman  he  had  chosen,  from  out  all  those  he 
had  ever  met— chosen,  albeit  his  acquaintance 
with  her  had  been  brief.  An  anonymous  letter. 
One,  too,  which  might  be  relied  upon  to  keep 
its  own  secret,  since  it  had  been  prepared  on 
a  typewriter. 

He  went  up  to  one  of  the  cars,  and  stood 
where  the  light  from  a  window  fell  on  the  sheet. 
Then  he  read  it  as  though  he  were  hopeful  of 
getting  some  new  meaning,  or  some  little  com- 
fort of  some  sort,  out  of  it. 
"Mr.  Malcolm  Baknakd. 

"  Deak  Sik:  I  understand  you  are  about  to  marry 
Ethel  Etten.  Let  me  give  you  a  little  friendly  ad- 
vice—Don't. 


"  You  are  going  to  marry  her  at  once,  without  tiie 
presence  of  her  relatives,  because  she  is  an  orphan, 
Her  guardian  will  be  present,  because  he  is  a  fool. 

"  1  know  her  quite  well,  and  I'm  free  to  say  I  don't 
understand  why  you  want  to  marry  her.  Perhaps 
if  I  had  the  honor  of  an  equally  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  you,  I  could  write  her  a  letter  of  advice 
filled  with  the  same  frank  candor  as  characterizes 
this  one  ;  as  it  is,  I  can't  do  it.  I  have  made  some 
inquiry  regarding  you,  and  perhaps  1  don't  wonder 
she  wi'll  many  you.  I  have  seen  you  once  ;  you  are 
not  a  bad  looking  fellow.  But  really,  you  ought  not 
to  do  it.  I  would  be  glad  to  write  more  strongly, 
and  say  that  you  shall  not  do  it.  What  do  you 
know  of  her  family?  her  friends  ?  her  past?  herself? 
Do  you  know  more  than  that  you  let  impulse  speak, 
that  she  was  moved  by  an  equal  impulse,  and  that 
—I  think  I  wrote  that  once  before  ;  yes,  I  did— her 
guardian  is  a  fool? 

'Mr.  Malcolm  Barnard,  Ethel  Etten  doesn't  love 
you.  You  are  young  and  happy  ;  you  cannot  afford 
to  throw  your  life  away.  Never  say  you  didn't 
know  ;  never  blame  me,  nor  anyone  else.  You've 
had  good  and  suillcient  warning  Now  be  wise,  or 
—or 

"  I  won't  write  it. 

"But  let  me  come  back  to  the  beginning  of  my 
letter  and  end  there.    Don't.'' 

Barnard  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket. 

"Believe!  believe!"  he  moaned,  as  he  cov- 
ered his  face  with  his  hands.  "  After  this  night's 
experience  I  am  ready  to  believe  anything !" 

"  So  am  I,"  said  a  voice  at  his  elbow. 

The  tramp  had  returned. 

"Well,"  said  Barnard,  wearily,  "  let  me  hear 
the  rest  of  your  story." 

"  I  will.  I  will  tell  you  where  I  got  my  hint. 
I  looked  in  my  partner's  eyes  for  it." 

"  In  his  eyes?' 

"Yes!  And  there  I  read  his  thoughts.  Not 
exactly  as  you  read  a  book,  for  I  did  not  see  the 
words ;  not  as  you  listen  to  spoken  language,  for 
I  heard  nothing ;  not  as  you  feel,  in  darkness 
and  in  silence,  for  I  was  too  far  away  to  reach 
and  strike  him.  But  I  can  give  no  explanation 
which  is  nearer  the  truth  than  one  of  those  illus- 
trations would  be ;  you  would  not  understand 
me  ;  I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand  it  myself. 
But  I  was  as  conscious  of  his  thoughts  as  1  was 
of  my  own ;  I  knew  what  was  going  on  in  his 
mind  as  well  as  though  I  had  been  in  hist)ody, 
using  his  brain  and  nerves." 

"  A  mind-reader?    Do  you  mean  that?" 

"  Perhaps  so  ;  in  a  limited  sense,  at  least." 

"  What  were  his  thoughts  ?" 

"  '  I  have  robbed  this  fellow,  and  he  will  never 
guess  it.  He  must  face  want  and  dishonor,  and 
all  for  my  sake.'    That  is  what  I  read." 

"  And  since  then?  With  other  men,  can  you 
read  their  thoughts  also  ?" 

"  No.    I  have  no^  that  power." 

"It  is  very  strahge,"  said  Barnard.  "Are 
you  sure  you  read  aright  ?" 

"  As  sure  as  I  speak  to  you  now." 

Barnard  turned  away  his  head.  Far  away 
could  be  heard  the  train  which  was  coming  to 
their  relief.  The  rain  was  increasing,  but  morn- 
ing was  at  hand. 

He  turned  back  again. 

But  there  was  no  one  there  to  whom  to  speak. 
The  tramp  was  already  more  than  half-way  down 
the  slope,  and  almost  hidden  among  the  trees 
at  its  foot. 


C2 


THE  MISSING  LINK. 


III. 

Barnaed,  an  hour  alter,  was  on  bis  way  home. 
He  had  asked  from  the  company,  by  telegraph, 
a  leave  of  absence,  which  was  granted  promptly. 
He  walked  at  once  out  to  the  little  house  which 
he  had  bought,  and  which  Ethel  and  he  had  fur- 
nished before  the  wedding ;  the  house  to  which 
he  had  taken  her  when  the  ceremony  was  over, 
and  where  he  had  left  her,  less  than  a  day  later, 
to  attend  to  his  duty  as  an  engineer. 

He  went  quietly  in  at  the  gate.  The  front 
door  was  unlocked.  He  entered  the  house.  He 
passed  noiselessly  upstairs.  He  found  his  way 
to  his  wife's  i^oom  unannounced.  She  sat  at 
her  table,  writing. 

Ho  had  never  seen  her  look  so  sweet.  There 
was  a  pain  at  his  heart  which  was  hard  to  bear — 
very  hard.  She  was  his  wife  and  he  had  loved 
her  so  !  It  was  hard  to  have  to  give  it  all  up. 
and  tOvput  his  happiness  away  from  him.  But 
one  tender  and  generous  resolve  sprang  up  in 
his  soul,  as  he  looked  at  her,  and  remained 
there  ;  it  was  different  from  what  he  had  prom- 
ised himself  on  his  way  home. 

"  I — I  will  shield  her  from— from  such  a  pen- 
alty as  I  suppose  she  deservq^,  though  I  will 
never  spare  him,"  he  said  to  himself. 

Then  he  spoke. 

"Mrs.  Barnard"  was  what  he  said.  It  was 
hard  not  to  call  her  "Ethel,"  and  bis  tone  was 
as  solemn  and  full  of  heartbreak  as  it  would 
have  been  had  he  said  it  above  her  coffin. 

She  looked  up  with  a  start,  just  a  little  paler 
than  she  had  been.  Then,  when  she  saw  that 
he  seemed  strong  and  well,  she  spraug  up  with 
a  blush  and  a  glad  cry,  and  ran  to  meet  him. 

But  he  evaded  her  outstretched  hands. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said,  coldly.  "I  suppose  you 
did  not  expect  me  back  so  soon  ?" 

"No,  I  did  not."  She  was  growing  pale 
again. 

"  Possibly  you  didn't  expect  me  back  at  all?" 

There  was  a  sneer  in  his  tone.  She  could  not 
help  but  hear  it. 

"  Malcolm,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

He  walked  over  to  where  she  sat  by  the  tabic 
—for  she  had  returned  there  when  he  repulsed 
her  -and  drew  the  picture  from  his  pocket  which 
he  had  shown  the  tramp. 

"Do  you  remember  the  time  I  took  this  pict- 
ure from  your  table  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  do." 

"  You  thought  I  was  jealous  then  ?" 

"You  acted  as  though  you  were." 

"You  remember  I  asked  you  to  tell  me  his 
bame,  do  you  not  ?" 

"  I  remember  it.  And  I  gave  it  to  you.  Ralph 
Moxen  is  his  name." 

"  I  know  it.  I  shall  never  forget  it.  Do  you 
recall  what  else  I  asked  you  ?" 

"Not  all.    You  were  foolish,  and " 

"Be  silent!  I  ask  you  now  what  you  must 
answer.  Do  you  understand  ?  Will  you  sa^y 
that  that  man  never  spoke  words  of  love  to 
you  ?" 

"  No,  I  will  not  say  that." 

"  Why  ?    Is  it  because  it  would  be  false  ?" 

"  It  would  be  false  ?" 

"  He  loved  you,  then  ?" 

"Ho  said  so." 

"  And  you?  But  I  will  not  ask.  I  can  see  it 
all :  You  quarreled  ;  he  warned  me  ;  he  won ; 
he  hurried  to  do  his  wicked  worst,  and " 


"  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  You  do.  Have  you  not  heard  from  Ralph 
Moxen  since  you  were  married  ?" 

"I  have,  twice." 

"  Show  me  his  letters." 

*'  I  cannot ;  I  burned  them." 

"  Perhaps  jon  were  writing  to  him " 

He  reached  over  to  take  her  letter  from  the 
table. 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  answered. 

"  I  was  writing  to  you,"  she  said. 

"  To  me  ?  It  could  not  reach  me  until  after 
my  return." 

"  I  was  going  to  send  it  by  telegraph." 

"Indeed?  How  loving  1  You  were  going  to 
play  the  game  a  little  longer,  were  you  ?  What 
a  devilish  mockery  it  wjuld  have  been  to  con- 
gratulate me  on  my  escape." 

"Your  escape?  What  do  you  mean?  I  did 
not  know  you  had  been  in  any  danger." 

"  Do  you  pretend  that  you  don't  know  what 
happened  to  me  ?" 

"  1  know  nothing  of  it." 

"  Nor  of  what  was  to  have  happened,  if  the 
plan  had  not  failed  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  Let  me  tell  you,  then,  that  there  was  an  at- 
tempt to  wreck  my  train  on  the  Cedar  Ridge." 

"  Oh,  Malcolm  !  Malcolm  !" 

"  And  that  the  fireman  was  killed." 

"  Oh,  Malcolm,  and  you  might  have  been  1" 

"Yes,"  crisply  and  savagely,  "I  might  have 
been.  And  there  is  a  warrrnt  out  for  the  arrest 
of  Ralph  Moxen  for  it.  The  authorities  are 
hunting  for  him  now." 

"  He  never  did  it." 

"  Why  ?" 

"  For  several  reasons.  First,  he  is  notr^apable 
of  doing  such  a  deed." 

"Ah  !  What  are  the  other  reasons  ?" 

'•  One  is  the  fact  that  he  left  the  station  next 
beyond  Cedar  Ridge -Forest  Isle  is  its  name, 
I  believe— on  a  train  which  departed  from  there 
early  in  the  evening  of  the  night  in  which  your 
train  was  due  there,  and  came  straight  through 
to  this  city." 

"Aha  !  an  alibi,  is  it?" 

"  He  certainly  didn't  attempt  to  wreck  your 
train." 

"  Well,  since  you  know  where  he  wasn't  then, 
perhaps  you  can  tell  where  he  is  now." 

"  I  can." 
-ii  Where  is  he  ?" 

"  On  a  hunting  expedition,  twenty  miles  north 
ofhere." 

"Thank  you." 

"  He  and  two  friends  were  going  out  from  For- 
est Isle  to  hunt,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  ride 
out  into  the  country  a  mile  or  two.  Then,  after 
some  discussion,  they  decided  to  take  a  train 
and  come  here  instead." 

"  Well  planned  !  I  suppose  he  can  prove  this  ? 
He  will  certainly  have  the  opportunity." 

"  He  can — of  course  he  can." 

"It  is  greatly  to  your  credit  to  be  so  well 
posted  regarding  all  his  recent  movements." 

"  It  is  certainly  nothing  to  my  discredit.  Mr, 
Moxen  is  engaged  to  my  friend  Mildred  Atkins, 
of  whom  you  have  often  heard  me  speak.  Mil- 
dred is  here  in  town  now,  having  arrived  since 
you  went  away." 

"  But  you  had  letters  from  him?" 

"  Yes  :  containing  messages  regarding  Mil- 


THE  MissiNa  Link. 


63 


dred's  plans,  the  probable  time  of  her  arrival, 
and  so  forth." 

"  But  you  and  he  were  engaged,  so  you  said." 

"  No.    I  didn't  say  so.    We  never  were." 

"  But  you  loved  him  ?" 

"  Never." 

"  But  he  did  you?" 

"  No.  He  said  he  did ;  but  he  has  since  con- 
fessed that  it  was  all  done  in  a  fit  of  jealousy, 
caused  by  some  act  of  Mildred's." 

"  Please  explain  this  then."  And  he  laid  the 
anonymous  letter  on  the  table. 
•  "I  think  I  can.  It's  true,  you  don't  know 
much  of  me  or  my  family.  It's  true,  too,  that  I 
know  more  myself,  than  I  did  a  few  days  ago. 
I  had  a  very  eccentric  «Ticle,a  brother  of  my 
father's,  who  died  ten  years  ago.  He  left  me 
one  hundred  dollars  in  his  will.  He  left  the 
same  amount  to  each  of  my  ten  cousins,  sons  of 
others  of  my  father's  brothers.  The  remainder 
of  his  property  was  left,  to  quote  the  words  of 
the  will — 1  remember  them  well  --'  in  trust  with 
my  lawyers,  until  they  can  satisfy  the  condi- 
tions of  certain  private  written  instructions 
which  I  have  deposited  with  them,  and  which  I 
declare  to  be  a  part  of-  this  last  will  and  testa- 
ment, to  all  intents  and  purposes,  and  which  I 
direct  shall  be  made  public  and  go  into  effect  at 
the  time  of  the  satisfaction  of  the  conditions  I 
have  imposed.'  The  chief  condition  was  my 
marriage." 

"And  you  knew  of  this  ?" 

"  Not  until  after  I  became  your  mfe. " 

"But  some  one  did  ?' 

"  I  think  so,  though  it  was  intended  the  direc- 

)us  should  be  strictly  private." 
'And  who  knew  it  ?" 
•  I  don't  unow.    Some  one  of  my  ten  cousins. 

\iave  no  idea  which  one.  Not  the  slightest 
^.  J*t  of  dishonor  has  ever  been  whispered  against 
an\\of  them  before." 

'*'  Oishonor  ?" 

"  Yes.  Among  the  instructions  my  uncle  left 
were  these — I  quote  again  from  memory  :  '  Miss 
Ethel  Etten  is  my  favorite,  but  I  have  two  rea- 
sons for  not  wishing  to  leave  my  property  to 
her,  openly  and  unconditionally.  First,  I  do  not 
think  she  understands,  or  will  understand,  busi- 
ness usages  well  enough  to  take  care  of  it. 
Second,  I  wish  her  loved  for  herself,  and  not  for 
her  money.  I  accordingly  direct  that  these  in- 
structions shall  be  kept  private  until  the  mar- 
riage of  the  above-named  Ethel  Etten.  I  direct 
that  the  property  I  leave,  with  the  exception  of 
amounts  directly  ordered  to  be  paid,  be  con- 
verted into  money,  and  deposited  at  interest  in 
such  banks  as  my  lawyers  may  select.  I  desire 
that  these  directions  and  instructions  be  com- 
municated to  Ethel  immediately  after  her  mar- 
riage, and  that  the  money  then  in  bank  to  the 
credit  of  my  estate  be  paid  to  her  husband,  un- 
conditionally, whenever  he  shall  apply  for  the 
same.  In  the  event  of  the  death  of  Ethel  Etlen 
unmarried,  or  the  refusal,  neglect,  or  failure  for 
any  other  reason,  of  her  husband  to  make  ap- 

Flication  for  the  money  thus  bequeathed  to  him, 
direct  that  it  be  paid  in  equal  shares  to  my 
nephews.'  These  stipulations  were  so  singular 
that  I  know  them  by  heart.  Can  you  guess,  Mal- 
colm, what  my  explanation  is  ?" 
Malcolm  stretched  out  his  hands  toward  her. 
"Oh,  Ethel,  Ethel,"  he  cried,  "  can  you  ever 
forgive  me  ?" 


"  I  can,  and  I  do.  Your  suspicion  grew  out  of 
your  love  for  me  and  your  maddening  fear  of 
loss.  In  your  place,  under  the  same  circum- 
stances, I  should  have  been  more  unjust  than 
you  were.    I  do  forgive  you,  freely  and  fully." 

"And  you  forget " 

"Everything  except  that  I  love  you  and  that 
you  love  me." 

"  I  haven't  killed  your  love,  then  ?" 


Lv  ae 

I  W£ 


gry.  1  was  puzzled,  frightened,  hurt— but  that 
was  all.  And  that  is  all  over  now.  There  will 
never  be  doubt  or  difference  between  us  again, 
will  there,  Malcolm  ?" 

"Never!" 

He  has  his  strong  arms  about  her,  holding 
her  as  though  he  would  never  let  her  go,  while 
his  lips  met  her's  hotly,  again  and  again. 

"  My  bravo,  brave  husband,  how  did  you  ever 
endure  it  all  ?  I— I  only  had  a  few  minutes  of 
doubt  and  fear,  a  few  minutes  in  which  I  thought 
that  perhaps  I  had  lost  you,  and  it  almost  killed 
me,"  she  whispered,  softly. 

"It  is  all  over  now.  We  will  be  happy  to- 
gether—happier than  if  this  had  not  happened. 
But  do  you  think  a  tenth  of  your  uncle's  fortune 
sufficient  temptation  to  a  man  to  commit  mur- 
der !" 

"It  might  be,  to  a  very  wicked  man." 

"  How  much  money  will  you  —  we  —  I  —  re- 
ceive ?" 

She  laughs  up  into  his  face,  and  speaks  slowly, 
while  she  gleofudy  watches  the  wonder  grow  m 
his  face. 

"About  five  hundred  thousand  dollars." 

A  WEEK  later,  Mr.  Barnard  has  received  his 
money  from  the  k,wyers  who  had  Theodore 
Etten^s  estate  in  trust.  He  has  met  Ralph 
Moxen,  and  is  ah-eady  a  familiar  friend  of  his. 
He  has  been  introduced  to  Mildred  Atkins,  and 
he  likes  her. 

Moxen  comes  into  Barnard's  parlor.  There  is 
a  frown  on  his  face. 

"  I  say,  Barnard,  you  have  made  matters 
pretty  serious  by  sending  the  authorities  after 
me  on  suspicion." 

"  How  so  ?  Your  alibi  was  so  conclusive  that 
there  was  no  arrest.  Not  a  dozen  persons  know 
that  there  was  ever  any  suspicion  of  you." 

"  No  ;  but  Mildred  knows  it." 

"  Of  course ;  but  she  knows  it  was  ground- 
less." 

"I  suppose  so.  But  she  says  there  is  a 
missing  link  in  the  evidence.  She  says  she 
will  never  marry  mo  until  it  is  known  who  was 
guilty." 

"  Indeed !  I  must  ask  Ethel  to  argue  the  mat- 
ter with  her." 

"She  has  already  done  so.  It  has  done  no 
good." 

"I  must  talk  with  her  myself." 

"It  won't  be  of  any  use'  If  you  want  to  help 
me— or  us,  for  Mildred,  with  ail  her  resolution 
and  firmness,  is  suffering  as  much  as  I  am— you 
must  find  the  missing  link." 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  door-bell.  A  boy 
brought  in  a  telegi-am.  Barnard  broke  open  the 
envelope,  and  read  : 

"  Boston,  Mass.,  Sept.  — ,  188-. 
"  Malcolm  Barnard  : 

"Peter  Etten  accidentally  shot.  Will  die.  Must 
see  you.    Coiue  iinmeUiately." 


64 


THE  Mmim  LINK. 


It  was  signed  by  the  physician  in  charge  of 
one  ot  the  most  important  'hospitals  iu  Boston. 

Barnard  handed  it  across  the  table  to  his 
friend  Moxen. 

"  That  may  be  a  clue  to  the  missing  link,"  he 
said. 

"  God  grant  that  it  is,"'  said  Moxen,  fervently  ; 
"  you  will  go  at  once,  will  you  not  ?" 

"  I  shall  go  by  the  next  train." 

It  was  a  rainy  night  when  Barnard  arrived  in 
Boston.  He  stepped  from  the  train,  and  started 
to  get  a  carriage. 

And  just  then  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  tramp, 
the  man  he  had  such  good  reason  for  remember- 
ing. Better  dressed  than  he  had  been,  probably 
as  a  result  of  the  money  with  which  the  passen- 
gers had  presented  him,  there?  was  still  no  ques- 
tion as  to  his  identity.  Barnard  walked  over  and 
held  out  his  hanJ.  The  tramp  seemed  pleased, 
took  it,  and  pressed  it  warmly. 

"  I  would  like  to  see  you  and  talk  with  you 
again,"  said  Barnard.  "  Will  you  please  make 
an  appoiontment  for  to-morrow  ?  To-night  I 
have  business  to  attend  to." 

"  So  have  I,  and  business  that  cannot  be  de- 
layed.   I  am  going  to Hospital." 

"  Indeed  !  So  am  I.  What  a  strange  coinci- 
dence !    Will  you  ride  with  me  there  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  I  will." 

Once  in  the  carriage,  Barnard  turned  to  his 
strange  companion. 

"Why  are  you  going  to  Hospital?"  he 

asked. 

'"To  see  my  former  partner.  He  his  dying 
there."  ^ 

"  And  has  sent  for  you  ?" 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said,  mournfully.  "Once  I  hoped 
he  would,  if  he  came  to  die  first.  No,  he  hasn't 
sent  for  me,  but  I  learned  he  was  here,  and  hur- 
ried on  to  see  him  die.  I  mean  to  look  in  his 
eyes  again,  and  see  if  there  is  anything  there 
for  me  lo  learn.  His  thoughts,  at  least  I  can 
read.    As  to  him  I  am  a  mind-reader." 

Suddenly  the  tramp— if  we  may  still  call  him 
that — took  it  upon  himself  to  question  Barnard. 

"  Why  are  you  going  to Hospital  ?" 

"To  see  a  cousin  of  my  wife's." 

"Dying?" 

"Yes." 

"Injured?" 

"  Shot." 

The  tramp  started. 

"  What  is  his  name  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Peter  Etten." 

"Great  God!"  cried  the  tramp.  "Can  it  be 
possible  ?    Peter  Etten  was  my  partner  !" 

They  rode  on  then,  silently.  The  rain  tapped 
at  the  carriage- windows  in  an  uncanny  way. 
Each  man  was  busy  with  his  own  thoughts. 

They  arrived  at  their  destination.  They  went 
in  together  to  the  bedside  of  the  dying  man- 
dying  in  poverty,  to  be  buried  by  charity,  no 
matter  how  much  he  had  stolen  and  squan- 
dered, nor  how  much  more  he  had  vainly  tried 
to  gain. 

He  was  past  the  power  of  speaking.  The 
gray  shadow  of  coming  death  was  already  in  his 


eyes  and  on  his  facer  But  he  looked  up  at 
Barnard,  a  man  he  had  seen  only  once  before, 
and  something  between  a  smile  and  a  grimace 
flitted  across  his  face  ;  he  evidently  recognized 
him. 

But  the  tramp— had  he  forgotten  him  ?  Is  it 
much  wonder?  What  age  could  never  have 
done,  hunger,  and  cold,  and  loss  of  faith  in  his 
kind  had  wrought.  The  tramp  looked  into  the 
eyes  of  the  dying  man ;  but  Peter  Etten  evi- 
dently did  not  know  that  he  had  ever  met  him. 
The  group  stood  there  for  some  minutes,  Bar- 
nard quiet  and  grave,  the  nurse  and  the  doctor 
professionally  sympathetic,  the  tramp  with  his 
unwavering  gaze  seeming  to  burn  into  the  eyes 
of  the  man  who  was  going  out  from  the  shore  ojf 
time  into  the  unknown  realm  of  eternity. 

Then,  suddenly,  there  was  a  change.  The 
grayness  deepened  on  cheeks  and  lips,  the 
hands  ceased  their  convulsive  movements,  the 
bedclothes  no  longer  stirred  over  the  breast, 
and 

"  It  is  the  end,"  said  the  tramp. 

"Yes,  it  is  the  end,"  echoed  the  doctor. 

The  tramp  drew  away  from  the  bed.  Barnard 
followed  him. 

"  Did  you  learn  anything  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Nothing  to  help  me.  He  had  forgotten  me. 
He  went  down  to  his  death  with  no  thought  of 
the  man  he  had  robbed  and  ruined." 

"  I  was  watching  his  face.    I  thought  so." 

"  Yes  ;  you  thought.     I  know." 

"  You  read  his  mind,  then  ?" 

"  I  did,    God  help  me,  I  did." 

"  And  what  was  it  ?" 

"  Regret  that  he— that  he " 

"That  he  had  done  wrong?     I  am  glad 
that."  >\^ 

"No,  it  was  not  that.    It  was  regret  that, 
an  attempt  to  commit    more    wickedness, 
failed." 

"  Will  you  tell " 

"  I  will  tell  all.  Just  as  too  low  a  voice  would 
baffle  the  listener— just  as  too  dim  a  light  would 
balk  the  reader-  so  it  was  with  me  for  many 
minutes  while  I  stood  looking  into  that  raseal's 
eyes.  Then,  suddenlv,  I  knew  his  thought." 
""What  was  it?" 

"  '  He  neglected  my  warning !  He  dared  the 
fate  I  threatened  in  my  letter  1  And  he  saved 
himself  and  his  train  1  If  I  could  have  been 
sure,  just  a  few  days  sooner,  that  my  wife  was 
really  dead,  I  would  have  tried  to  induce  the 
lucky  little  fool  to  marry  me,  and ' " 

"And  what?" 

"  Nothing.  When  the  brain  goes  I  am  done  ; 
even  such  power  as  God  has  blessed — or  cursed 
— me  with  cannot  go  beyond  the  lino  which 
separates  death  from  life." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Barnard,  bowing  his  head. 

There  is  little  left  to  write.  The  Barnards 
and  the  Moxcns  are  as  happy  people  as  you 
would  wish  to  meet.  They  are  not  ai  all  super- 
stitious in  the  ordinary  way— they  do  not  worry 
about  the  spilling  of  salt,  or  care  over  which 
shouider  they  first  see  the  new  moon  ;  but  they 
firmly  believe  that  the  tramp's  mysterious  power 
of  discerning  the  thoughts  of  "the  dying  man 
furnished  them  The  Missing  Link 


THE  ARM  CHAIR  LIBRARYj 

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Ten  Cents  Each ! 


EACH  NUMBER  CONTAINS  A  COMPLETE  NOV| 
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numbers  are  now  ready  : 


No.  1.  THE  SCARLET  LETTER.  By  Na- 
thaniel Hawthorne. 

No.  2.  THE  MYSTERY  OF  COLDE  FELL ; 
Or,  NOT  PROVEN.  By  Charlotte  M.  Braerae, 
anthor  of  "Dora  Thorno." 

No.  3.  UNDER  THE  RED  FLAG.  By  Miss 
M.  E.  Brad^lon. 

No.  4.  KING  SOLOMON'S  MINES.  By  H. 
Riuer  Haggarrl. 

No.  5.  AROUND  THE  WORLD  IN  EIGHTY 
DAYS.    Bv  Jules  Verne. 

No.  6.  THE  CORSICAN  BROTHERS.  By 
Alexander  Dumas. 

No.  7.  LADY  GRACE.   Bv  Mra.  Henry  Wood. 

No.  8.  AVERIL.    Bv  Rosa  Nouchette  Carey. 

No.  9.  THE  BLACK  DWARF.  By  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott. 

No.  10.  A  NOBLE  LIFE.  By  Miss  Mu- 
lock. 

No.  11.  THE  BELLE  OF  LYNN ;  Or,  THE 
MILLER'S  DAUGHTER.  By  Charlotte  M. 
Braeme,  author  of  "  Dora  Thorne." 

No.  12.  THE  BLACK  TULIP.  By  Alexander 
Damas. 

No.  13.  THE   DUCHESS.    By   "  The  Duch- 

aba  " 

No.  14.  NURSE  REVEL'S  MISTAKE.  By 
Florence  Warden. 

No.  15.  MERLE'S  CRUSADE.  By  Rosa  Nou- 
chette Carey. 

No,  16.  A  STUDY  IN  SCARLET.  By  A. 
Conan  Doyle. 


No.  17.   ROCK  RUIN  ;  Or,  THE  DAUGH^ 
OF  THE    ISLAND.   By  Mrs.  Ann  S.  Stephen! 

No.   18.     LORD  LISLE'S   DAUGHTER. 
Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  anthor  of  "  Dora  Thornt 

No.    19.     THE    ARMORER  OF  TYRE. 
Svlvanus  Cobb,  Jr. 

No.   20.  Mr.    GILFIL'S  LOVE  STORY. 
George  Eliot. 

No.  21.  A  SCARLET  SIN.    By  Florence  Mj 
ryat. 

No.  22.  THE  SEA  KING.    By  Captain  Mj 
ryat. 

No.   23.   THE   SIEGE  OF  GRANADA. 
Sir  E.  Bulwer  Lytton. 

No.  24.  MR.  MEESON'S  WILL.    By  H.  Rid^ 
Haggard. 

No.   25.    JENNY  HARLOWE.    By  W.   Clar 
Russell. 

No.  26.    BEATON'S  BARGAIN.    By  Mrs.  A| 
exander. 

No.  27.  THE  SQUIRE'S  DARLING.   By  Char 
lotto  M.  Braeme,  author  of  "Dora  Thorne." 

No.  28.    THE  RUSSIAN  GIPSY.    By  Alexai 
der  Dumas. 

No.  29.  THE  WANDERING  HEIR.  By  Charle^ 
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No.  30.  FLOWER  AND  WEED.    By  Miss  M| 
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